LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF 
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SANTA  CRUZ 


PETER 


BOOKS   BY  F.  HOPKINSON   SMITH 

PUBLISHED  BY  CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

PETER.     Illustrated $1.50 

THE  TIDES  OF  BARNEGAT.     Illustrated     .     .     .  1.50 

THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN.     Illustrated  1.50 
THE  ROMANCE  OF  AN  OLD-FASHIONED 

GENTLEMAN.     Illustrated 1.50 

COLONEL  CARTER'S  CHRISTMAS.     Illustrated    .  1.50 

THE  WOOD  FIRE  IN  No.  3.     Illustrated    .     .     .  1.50 

THE  VEILED  LADY.     Illustrated 1.50 

AT  CLOSE  RANGE.     Illustrated 1.50 

THE  UNDER  DOG.     Illustrated 1.50 


She  sent  another  kiss  flying  through  the  air. 

Page  167 


PETER 

A  NOVEL 
OF  WHICH  HE  IS  NOT  THE  HERO 


BY 

F.   HOPKINSON    SMITH 


ILLUSTRATED  BY 

A.    I.    KELLER 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S    SONS 
1908 


COPYRIGHT,  1908,  BY 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


Published  August,  1908 


P4- 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

She  sent  another  kiss  flying  through  the  air    .     Frontispiece 

Facing  Page 

"Now  you  go  to  bed" 154 

"I  know!"   he  cried  angrily,  but  with  a  certain  dig- 
nity.    "  It  is  because  I  am  a  J ew"      ....     424 

" But  we  want  you,  and  you  must" 480 


PETER 


CHAPTER   I 


Peter  was  still  poring  over  his  ledger  one  dark  after- 
noon in  December,  his  bald  head  glistening  like  a 
huge  ostrich  egg  under  the  flare  of  the  overhead  gas 
jets,  when  Patrick,  the  night  watchman,  catching  sight 
of  my  face  peering  through  the  outer  grating,  opened 
the  door  of  the  Bank. 

The  sight  so  late  in  the  day  was  an  unusual  one,  for 
in  all  the  years  that  I  have  called  at  the  Bank — ten, 
now — no,  eleven  since  we  first  knew  each  other — Peter 
had  seldom  failed  to  be  ready  for  our  walk  uptown 
when  the  old  moon-faced  clock  high  up  on  the  wall 
above  the  stove  pointed  at  four. 

"I  thought  there  was  something  up!"  I  cried. 
"What  is  it,  Peter — balance  wrong?" 

He  did  not  answer,  only  waved  his  hand  in  reply, 
his  bushy  gray  eyebrows  moving  slowly,  like  two 
shutters  that  opened  and  closed,  as  he  scanned  the 
lines  of  figures  up  and  down,  his  long  pen  gripped 
tight  between  his  thin,  straight  lips,  as  a  dog  carries 
a  bone. 

1 


PETER 

I  never  interrupt  him  when  his  brain  is  nosing  about 
like  this;  it  is  better  to  keep  still  and  let  him  ferret  it 
out.  So  I  sat  down  outside  the  curved  rail  with  its 
wooden  slats  backed  by  faded  green  curtains,  close  to 
the  big  stove  screened  off  at  the  end  of  the  long  room, 
fixed  one  eye  on  the  moon-face  and  the  other  on  the 
ostrich  egg,  and  waited. 

There  are  no  such  banks  at  the  present  time — 
were  no  others  then,  and  this  story  begins  not  so  very 
many  years  ago —  A  queer,  out-of-date,  mouldy  old 
barn  of  a  bank,  you  would  say,  this  Exeter — for  an 
institution  wielding  its  influence.  Not  a  coat  of  paint 
for  half  a  century;  not  a  brushful  of  whitewash  for 
goodness  knows  how  much  longer.  As  for  the  floor,  it 
still  showed  the  gullies  and  grooves,  with  here  and 
there  a  sturdy  knot  sticking  up  like  a  nut  on  a  boiler, 
marking  the  track  of  countless  impatient  depositors  and 
countless  anxious  borrowers,  it  may  be,  who  had  lock- 
stepped  one  behind  the  other  for  fifty  years  or  more, 
in  their  journey  from  the  outer  door  to  the  windows 
where  the  Peters  of  the  old  days,  and  the  Peter  of  the 
present,  presided  over  the  funds  entrusted  to  their 
care. 

Well  enough  in  its  day,  you  might  have  said,  with  a 
shrug,  as  you  looked  over  its  forlorn  interior.  Well 
enough  in  its  day!  WThy,  man,  old  John  Astor,  James 
Beekman,  Rhinelander  Stewart,  Moses  Grinnell,  and 
a  lot  of  just  such  worthies — men  whose  word  was  as 
good  as  their  notes — and  whose  notes  were  often  better 
than  the  Government's,  presided  over  its  destinies, 


PETER 

and  helped  to  stuff  the  old-fashioned  vault  with  wads 
of  gilt-edged  securities — millions  in  value  if  you  did 
but  know  it — and  making  it  what  it  is  to-day.  If  you 
don't  believe  the  first  part  of  my  statement,  you've 
only  to  fumble  among  the  heap  of  dusty  ledgers  piled 
on  top  of  the  dusty  shelves;  and  if  you  doubt  the 
latter  part,  then  try  to  buy  some  of  the  stock  and  see 
what  you  have  to  pay  for  it.  Although  the  gas  was 
turned  off  in  the  directors'  room,  I  could  still  see  from 
where  I  sat  the  very  mahogany  table  under  which 
these  same  ruffle-shirted,  watch-fobbed,  snuff-taking 
old  fellows  tucked  their  legs  when  they  decided  on  who 
should  and  who  should  not  share  the  bank's  confi- 
dence. 

And  the  side  walls  and  surroundings  were  none  the 
less  shabby  and  quite  as  dilapidated.  Even  the  win- 
dows had  long  since  given  up  the  fight  to  maintain  a 
decent  amount  of  light,  and  as  for  the  grated  opening 
protected  by  iron  shutters  which  would  have  had 
barely  room  to  swing  themselves  clear  of  the  building 
next  door,  no  Patrick  past  or  present  had  ever  dared 
loosen  their  bolts  for  a  peep  even  an  inch  wide  into  the 
canyon  below,  so  gruesome  was  the  collection  of  old 
shoes,  tin  cans,  broken  bottles  and  battered  hats  which 
successive  generations  had  hurled  into  the  narrow  un- 
get-at-able space  that  lay  between  the  two  structures. 

Indeed  the  only  thing  inside  or  out  of  this  time- 
worn  building  which  the  most  fertile  of  imaginations 
could  consider  as  being  at  all  up  to  date  was  the 
clock.  Not  its  face — that  was  old-timey  enough  with 

3 


PETER 

its  sun,  moon  and  stars  in  blue  and  gold,  and  the  name 
of  the  Liverpool  maker  engraved  on  its  enamel;  nor 
its  hands,  fiddle-shaped  and  stiff,  nor  its  case,  which 
always  reminded  me  of  a  coffin  set  up  on  end  awaiting 
burial — but  its  strike.  Whatever  divergences  the  Exe- 
ter allowed  itself  in  its  youth,  or  whatever  latitude  or 
longitude  it  had  given  its  depositors,  and  that,  we  may 
be  sure,  was  precious  little  so  long  as  that  Board  of 
Directors  was  alive,  there  was  no  wabbling  or  waver- 
ing, no  being  behind  time,  when  the  hour  hand  of  the 
old  clock  reached  three  and  its  note  of  warning  rang 
out. 

Peter  obeyed  the  ominous  sound  and  closed  his 
Teller's  window  with  a  gentle  bang.  Patrick  took 
notice  and  swung  to  the  iron  grating  of  the  outer  door. 
You  might  peer  in  and  beg  ever  so  hard — unless,  of 
course,  you  were  a  visitor  like  myself,  and  even  then 
Peter  would  have  to  give  his  consent — you  might  peer 
through,  I  say,  or  tap  on  the  glass,  or  you  might  plead 
that  you  were  late  and  very  sorry,  but  the  ostrich  egg 
never  turned  in  its  nest  nor  did  the  eyebrows  vibrate. 
Three  o'clock  was  three  o'clock  at  the  Exeter,  and 
everybody  might  go  to  the  devil — financially,  of  course 
— before  the  rule  would  be  broken.  Other  banks  in 
panicky  times  might  keep  a  side  door  open  until  four, 
five  or  six — that  is,  the  bronze-rail,  marble-top,  glass- 
front,  certify-your-checks-as-early-as-ten-in-the-morn- 
ing-without-a-penny-on-deposit  kind  of  banks — but  not 
the  Exeter — that  is,  not  with  Peter's  consent — and 
Peter  was  the  Exeter  so  far  as  his  department  was  con- 

4 


PETER 

cerned — and  had  been  for  nearly  thirty  years — twenty 
as  bookkeeper,  five  as  paying  teller  and  five  as  receiv- 
ing teller. 

And  the  regularity  and  persistency  of  this  clock! 
Not  only  did  it  announce  the  hours,  but  it  sounded 
the  halves  and  quarters,  clearing  its  throat  with  a  whirr 
like  an  admonitory  cough  before  each  utterance.  I 
had  samples  of  its  entire  repertoire  as  I  sat  there:  One 
.  .  .  two  .  .  .  three  .  .  .  four  .  .  .  five — then  half 
an  hour  later  a  whir-r  and  a  single  note.  "Half-past 
five,"  I  said  to  myself.  "Will  Peter  never  find  that 
mistake  ?  "  Once  during  the  long  wait  the  night  watch- 
man shifted  his  leg — he  was  on  the  other  side  of  the 
stove — and  once  Peter  reached  up  above  his  head  for 
a  pile  of  papers,  spreading  them  out  before  him  under 
the  white  glare  of  the  overhead  light,  then  silence  again, 
broken  only  by  the  slow,  dogged  tock-tick,  tock-tick,  or 
the  sagging  of  a  hot  coal  adjusting  itself  for  the  night. 

Suddenly  a  cheery  voice  rang  out  and  Peter's  hands 
shot  up  above  his  head. 

"Ah,  Breen  &  Co.!  One  of  those  plaguey  sevens 
for  a  nine.  Here  we  are!  Oh,  Peter  Grayson,  how 
often  have  I  told  you  to  be  careful!  Ah,  what  a 
sorry  block  of  wood  you  carry  on  your  shoulders.  I 
won't  be  a  minute  now,  Major."  A  gratuitous  com- 
pliment on  the  part  of  my  friend,  I  being  a  poor  devil 
of  a  contractor  without  military  aspirations  of  any  kind. 
"Well,  well,  how  could  I  have  been  so  stupid.  Get 
ready  to  close  up,  Patrick.  No,  thank  you,  Patrick, 
my  coat's  inside;  I'll  fetch  it." 

5 


PETER 

He  was  quite  another  man  now,  closing  the  great 
ledger  with  a  bang;  shouldering  it  as  Moses  did  the 
Tables  of  the  Law,  and  carrying  it  into  the  big  vault 
behind  him — big  enough  to  back  a  buggy  into  had 
the  great  door  been  wider — shooting  the  bolts,  whirring 
the  combination  into  so  hopeless  and  confused  a  state 
that  should  even  the  most  daring  and  expert  of  burglars 
have  tried  his  hand  or  his  jimmy  on  its  steel  plating 
he  would  have  given  up  in  despair  (that  is  unless  big 
Patrick  fell  asleep — an  unheard-of  occurrence)  and  all 
with  such  spring  and  joyousness  of  movement  that 
had  I  not  seen  him  like  this  many  times  before  I  would 
have  been  deluded  into  the  belief  that  the  real  Peter 
had  been  locked  up  in  the  dismal  vault  with  the  musty 
books  and  that  an  entirely  different  kind  of  Peter  was 
skipping  about  outside. 

But  that  was  nothing  to  the  air  with  which  he  swept 
his  papers  into  the  drawer  of  his  desk,  brushed  away 
the  crumpled  sheets  upon  which  he  had  figured  his 
balance,  and  darted  to  the  washstand  behind  the  nar- 
row partition.  Nor  could  it  be  compared  to  the  way 
in  which  he  stripped  off  his  black  bombazine  office- 
coat  with  its  baggy  pockets — quite  a  disreputable- 
looking  coat  I  must  say — taking  it  by  the  nape  of  the 
neck,  as  if  it  were  some  loathsome  object  to  be  got  rid 
of,  and  hanging  it  upon  a  hook  behind  him;  nor  to  the 
way  in  which  he  pulled  up  his  shirt  sleeves  and  plunged 
his  white,  long-fingered,  delicately  modelled  hands  into 
the  basin,  as  if  cleanliness  were  a  thing  to  be  welcomed 
as  a  part  of  his  life.  These  carefully  dried,  each  finger 

6 


PETER 

•?yL 

by  itself — not  forgetting  the  small  seal  .ring  on  the 
little  one — he  gave  an  extra  polish  to  his  glistening  pate 
with  the  towel,  patted  his  fresh,  smooth-shaven  cheeks 
with  an  unrumpled  handkerchief  which  he  had  taken 
from  his  inside  pocket,  carefully  adjusted  his  white 
neck-cloth,  refastening  the  diamond  pin — a  tiny  one, 
but  clear  as  a  baby's  tear — put  on  his  frock-coat  with 
its  high  collar  and  flaring  tails,  took  down  his  silk  hat, 
gave  it  a  flourish  with  his  handkerchief,  unhooked  his 
overcoat  from  a  peg  behind  the  door  (a  gray  surtout 
cut  something  like  the  first  Napoleon's)  and  stepped 
out  to  where  I  sat. 

You  would  never  have  put  him  down  as  being  sixty 
years  of  age  had  you  known  him  as  well  as  I  did — 
and  it  is  a  great  pity  you  didn't.  Really,  now  that  I 
come  to  think  of  it,  I  never  did  put  him  down  as  being 
of  any  age  at  all.  Peter  Grayson  and  age  never  seemed 
to  have  anything  to  do  with  each  other.  Sometimes 
when  I  have  looked  in  through  the  Receiving  Teller's 
window  and  have  passed  in  my  book — I  kept  my 
account  at  the  Exeter — and  he  has  lifted  his  bushy 
shutters  and  gazed  at  me  suddenly  with  his  merry 
Scotch-terrier  eyes,  I  have  caught,  I  must  admit,  a 
line  of  anxiety,  or  rather  of  concentrated  cautiousness 
on  his  face,  which  for  the  moment  made  me  think  that 
perhaps  he  was  looking  a  trifle  older  than  when  I  last 
saw  him;  but  all  this  was  scattered  to  the  winds  when 
I  met  him  an  hour  afterward  swinging  up  Wall  Street 
with  that  cheery  lift  of  the  heels  so  peculiarly  his 
own,  a  lift  that  the  occupants  of  every  office  window 

7 


PETER 

on  both  sides  of  the  street  knew  to  be  Peter's  even 
when  they  failed  to  recognize  the  surtout  and  straight- 
brimmed  high  hat.  Had  any  doubting  Thomas,  how- 
ever, walked  beside  him  on  his  way  up  Broadway 
to  his  rooms  on  Fifteenth  Street,  and  had  the  quick, 
almost  boyish  lift  of  Peter's  heels  not  entirely  con- 
vinced the  unbeliever  of  Peter's  youth,  all  questions 
would  have  been  at  once  disposed  of  had  the  cheery 
bank  teller  invited  him  into  his  apartment  up  three 
flights  of  stairs  over  the  tailor's  shop — and  he  would 
have  invited  him  had  he  been  his  friend — and  then 
and  there  forced  him  into  an  easy  chair  near  the  open 
wood  fire,  with  some  such  remark  as:  "Down,  you 
rascal,  and  sit  close  up  where  I  can  get  my  hands  on 
you ! "  No — there  was  no  trace  of  old  age  about  Peter. 

He  was  ready  now — hatted,  coated  anS  gloved — 
not  a  hint  of  the  ostrich  egg  or  shaggy  shutters  visible, 
but  a  well-preserved  bachelor  of  forty  or  forty-five; 
strictly  in  the  mode  and  of  the  mode,  looking  more 
like  some  stray  diplomat  caught  in  the  wiles  of  the 
Street,  or  some  retired  magnate,  than  a  modest  bank 
clerk  on  three  thousand  a  year.  The  next  instant 
he  was  tripping  down  the  granite  steps  between  the 
rusty  iron  railings — on  his  toes  most  of  the  way;  the 
same  cheery  spring  in  his  heels,  slapping  his  thin, 
shapely  legs  with  his  tightly  rolled  umbrella,  ad  justing  his 
hat  at  the  proper  angle  so  that  the  well-trimmed  side  whis- 
kers— the  veriest  little  dabs  of  whiskers  hardly  an  inch 
long — would  show  as  well  as  the  fringes  of  his  grey  hair. 

Not  that  he  was  anxious  to  conceal  these  slight  indi- 

8 


PETER 

cations  of  advancing  years,  nor  did  he  have  a  spark 
of  cheap  personal  vanity  about  him,  but  because  it 
was  his  nature  always  to  put  his  best  foot  foremost 
and  keep  it  there;  because,  too,  it  behooved  him  in 
manner,  dress  and  morals,  to  maintain  the  standards 
he  had  set  for  himself,  he  being  a  Grayson,  with  the 
best  blood  of  the  State  in  his  veins,  and  with  every 
table  worth  dining  at  open  to  him  from  Fourteenth 
Street  to  Murray  Hill,  and  beyond. 

"Now,  it's  all  behind  me,  my  dear  boy,"  he  cried, 
as  we  reached  the  sidewalk  and  turned  our  faces  up 
Wall  Street  toward  Broadway.  "Fifteen  hours  to 
live  my  own  life!  No  care  until  ten  o'clock  to-morrow. 
Lovely  life,  my  dear  Major,  when  you  think  of  it. 
Ah,  old  Micawber  was  right — income  one  pound,  ex- 
pense one  pound  ten  shillings;  result,  misery:  income 
one  pound  ten,  expense  one  pound,  outcome,  happi- 
ness! What  a  curse  this  Street  is  to  those  who  abuse 
its  power  for  good;  half  of  them  trying  to  keep  out  of 
jail  and  the  other  half  fighting  to  keep  out  of  the 
poor-house!  And  most  of  them  get  so  little  out  of  it. 
Just  as  I  can  detect  a  counterfeit  bill  at  sight,  my 
boy,  so  can  I  put  my  finger  on  these  money-getters 
when  the  poison  of  money-getting  for  money's  sake 
begins  to  work  in  their  veins.  I  don't  mean  the  lay- 
ing up  of  money  for  a  rainy  day,  or  the  providing  for 
one's  family.  Every  man  should  lay  up  a  six-months' 
doctor's  bill,  just  as  every  man  should  lay  up  money 
enough  to  keep  his  body  out  of  Potter's  Field.  It's 
laying  up  the  surplus  that  hurts." 

9 


PETER 

Peter  had  his  arm  firmly  locked  in  mine  now. 

"Now  that  concern  of  Breen  &  Company,  where  I 
found  my  error,  are  no  better  than  the  others.  They 
are  new  to  this  whirlpool,  but  they  will  soon  get  in 
over  their  heads.  I  think  it  is  only  the  third  or  fourth 
year  since  they  started  business,  but  they  are  already 
floating  all  sorts  of  schemes,  and  some  of  them — if  you 
will  permit  me  in  confidence,  strictly  in  confidence, 
my  dear  boy — are  rather  shady,  I  think:  at  least  I 
judge  so  from  their  deposits." 

"What  are  they,  bankers?"  I  ventured.  I  had 
never  heard  of  the  firm;  not  an  extraordinary  thing  in 
my  case  when  bankers  were  concerned. 

Peter  laughed: 

"Yes,  BANKERS— all  in  capital  letters— the  imi- 
tation kind.  Breen  came  from  some  place  out  of  town 
and  made  a  lucky  hit  in  his  first  year — mines  or  some- 
thing— I  forget  what.  Oh,  but  you  must  know  that 
it  takes  very  little  now-a-days  to  make  a  full-fledged 
banker.  All  you  have  to  do  is  to  hoist  in  a  safe — 
through  the  window,  generally,  with  the  crowd  looking 
on;  rail  off  half  the  office;  scatter  some  big  ledgers 
over  two  or  three  newly  varnished  desks;  move  in  a 
dozen  arm-chairs,  get  a  ticker,  a  black-board  and  a 
boy  with  a  piece  of  chalk;  be  pleasant  to  every  fellow 
you  meet  with  his  own  or  somebody  else's  money  in 
his  pocket,  and  there  you  are.  But  we  won't  talk  of 
these  things — it  isn't  kind,  and,  really,  I  hardly  know 
Breen,  and  Pm  quite  sure  he  wouldn't  know  me  if  he 
saw  me,  and  he's  a  very  decent  gentleman  in  many 

10 


PETER 

ways,  I  hear.  He  never  overdraws  his  account,  any 
way — never  tries — and  that's  more  than  I  can  say 
for  some  of  his  neighbors." 

The  fog,  which  earlier  in  the  afternoon  had  been  but 
a  blue  haze,  softening  the  hard  outlines  of  the  street, 
had  now  settled  down  in  earnest,  choking  up  the 
doorways,  wiping  out  the  tops  of  the  buildings,  their 
fa£ades  starred  here  and  there  with  gas-jets,  and  making 
a  smudged  drawing  of  the  columns  of  the  Custom 
House  opposite. 

" Superb,  are  they  not?"  said  Peter,  as  he  wheeled 
and  stood  looking  at  the  row  of  monoliths  supporting 
the  roof  of  the  huge  granite  pile,  each  column  in  relief 
against  the  dark  shadows  of  the  portico.  "And  they 
are  never  so  beautiful  to  me,  my  boy,  as  when  the 
ugly  parts  of  the  old  building  are  lost  in  the  fog.  Fol- 
low the  lines  of  these  watchmen  of  the  temple!  These 
grave,  dignified,  majestic  columns  standing  out  in  the 
gloom  keeping  guard!  But  it  is  only  a  question  of 
time — down  they'll  come!  See  if  they  don't!" 

"They  will  never  dare  move  them,"  I  protested. 
"It  would  be  too  great  a  sacrilege."  The  best  way 
to  get  Peter  properly  started  is  never  to  agree  with  him. 

"Not  move  them!  They  will  break  them  up  for 
dock-filling  before  ten  years  are  out.  They're  in  the 
way,  my  boy;  they  shut  out  the  light;  can't  hang 
signs  on  them;  can't  plaster  them  over  with  theatre 
bills;  no  earthly  use.  'Wall  Street  isn't  Rome  or 
any  other  excavated  ruin;  it's  the  centre  of  the  uni- 
verse'— that's  the  way  the  fellows  behind  these  glass 

11 


PETER 

windows  talk."  Here  Peter  pointed  to  the  offices  of 
some  prominent  bankers,  where  other  belated  clerks 
were  still  at  work  under  shaded  gas-jets.  "These 
fellows  don't  want  anything  classic;  they  want  some- 
thing that'll  earn  four  per  cent." 

We  were  now  opposite  the  Sub-Treasury,  its  roof 
lost  in  the  settling  fogs,  the  bronze  figure  of  the  Father 
of  His  Country  dominating  the  flight  of  marble  steps 
and  the  adjacent  streets. 

Again  Peter  wheeled;  this  time  he  lifted  his  hat  to 
the  statue. 

"  Good  evening,  your  Excellency,"  he  said  in  a  voice 
mellowed  to  the  same  respectful  tone  with  which  he 
would  have  addressed  the  original  in  the  flesh. 

Suddenly  he  loosened  his  arm  from  mine  and  squared 
himself  so  he  could  look  into  my  face. 

"I  notice  that  you  seldom  salute  him,  Major,  and 
it  grieves  me,"  he  said  with  a  grim  smile. 

I  broke  into  a  laugh.  "Do  you  think  he  would 
feel  hurt  if  I  didn't." 

"Of  course  he  would,  and  so  should  you.  He 
wasn't  put  there  for  ornament,  my  boy,  but  to  be  kept 
in  mind,  and  I  want  to  tell  you  that  there's  no  place  in 
the  world  where  his  example  is  so  much  needed  as 
right  here  in  Wall  Street.  Want  of  reverence,  my 
dear  boy" — here  he  adjusted  his  umbrella  to  the 
hollow  of  his  arm — "is  our  national  sin.  Nobody 
reveres  anything  now-a-days.  Much  as  you  can  do  to 
keep  people  from  running  railroads  through  your 
family  vaults,  and,  as  to  one's  character,  all  a  man 

12 


PETER 

needs  to  get  himself  battered  black  and  blue,  is  to 
try  to  be  of  some  service  to  his  country.  Even  our 
presidents  have  to  be  murdered  before  we  stop  abusing 
them.  By  Jove!  Major,  you've  got  to  salute  him! 
You're  too  fine  a  man  to  run  to  seed  and  lose  your 
respect  for  things  worth  while.  I  won't  have  it,  I  tell 
you!  Off  with  your  hat!" 

I  at  once  uncovered  my  head  (the  fog  helped  to  con- 
ceal my  own  identity,  if  it  didn't  Peter's)  and  stood 
for  a  brief  instant  in  a  respectful  attitude. 

There  was  nothing  new  in  the  discussion.  Some- 
times I  would  laugh  at  him;  sometimes  I  would  only 
touch  my  hat  in  unison;  sometimes  I  let  him  do  the 
bowing  alone,  an  act  on  his  part  which  never  attracted 
attention — looking  more  as  if  he  had  accosted  some 
passing  friend. 

We  had  reached  Broadway  by  this  time  and  were 
crossing  the  street  opposite  Trinity  Churchyard. 

" Come  over  here  with  me,"  he  cried,  "and  let  us  look 
in  through  the  iron  railings.  The  study  of  the  dead 
is  often  more  profitable  than  knowledge  of  the  living. 
Ah,  the  gate  is  open!  It  is  not  often  I  am  here  at  this 
time,  and  on  a  foggy  afternoon.  What  a  noble  charity, 
my  boy,  is  a  fog — it  hides  such  a  multitude  of  sins — 
bad  architecture  for  one,"  and  he  laughed  softly. 

I  always  let  Peter  run  on — in  fact  I  always  encourage 
him  to  run  on.  No  one  I  know  talks  quite  in  the 
same  way;  many  with  a  larger  experience  of  life  are 
more  profound,  but  none  have  the  personal  note  which 
characterizes  the  old  fellow's  discussions. 

13 


PETER 

"And  how  do  you  suppose  these  by-gones  feel  about 
what  is  going  on  around  them?"  he  rattled  on,  tapping 
the  wet  slab  of  a  tomb  with  the  end  of  his  umbrella. 
"And  not  only  these  sturdy  patriots  who  lie  here,  but  the 
queer  old  ghosts  who  live  in  the  steeple?"  he  added, 
waving  his  hand  upward  to  the  slender  spire,  its 
cross  lost  in  the  fog.  "Yes,  ghosts  and  goblins,  my 
boy.  You  don't  believe  it?- — I  do — or  I  persuade 
myself  I  do,  which  is  better.  Sometimes  I  can  see 
them  straddling  the  chimes  when  they  ring  out  the 
hours,  or  I  catch  them  peeping  out  between  the  slats 
of  the  windows  away  up  near  the  cross.  Very  often 
in  the  hot  afternoons  when  you  are  stretching  your 
lazy  body  under  the  tents  of  the  mighty — "  (Peter 
referred  to  some  friends  of  mine  who  owned  a  villa 
down  on  Long  Island,  and  were  good  enough  to  ask 
me  down  for  a  week  in  August)  "I  come  up  here  out  of 
the  rush  and  sit  on  these  old  tombstones  and  talk  to 
these  old  fellows — both  kinds — the  steeple  boys  and 
the  old  cronies  under  the  sod.  You  never  come,  I 
know.  You  will  when  you're  my  age." 

I  had  it  in  my  mind  to  tell  him  that  the  inside  of  a 
dry  tent  had  some  advantages  over  the  outside  of  a 
damp  tomb,  so  far  as  entertaining  one's  friends,  even 
in  hot  weather,  was  concerned,  but  I  was  afraid  it 
might  stop  the  flow  of  his  thoughts,  and  checked  my- 
self. 

"It  is  not  so  much  the  rest  and  quiet  that  delights 
me,  as  the  feeling  that  I  am  walled  about  for  the  mo- 
ment and  protected;  jerked  out  of  the  whirlpool,  as 

14 


PETER 

it  were,  and  given  a  breathing  spell.  On  these  after- 
noons the  old  church  becomes  a  church  once  more — 
not  a  gate  to  bar  out  the  rush  of  commercialism.  See 
where  she  stands — quite  out  to  the  very  curb,  her 
warning  finger  pointing  upward.  "Thus  far  shalt 
thou  come,  and  no  farther/  she  cries  out  to  the  Four 
Per  Cents.  'Hug  up  close  to  me,  you  old  fellows 
asleep  in  your  graves;  get  under  my  lea.  Let  us  fight 
it  out  together,  the  living  and  the  dead!'  And  now 
hear  these  abominable  Four  Per  Cents  behind  their 
glass  windows:  'No  place  fora  church,' they  say.  'No 
place  for  the  dead !  Property  too  valuable.  Move  it  up 
town.  Move  it  out  in  the  country — move  it  any  where 
so  you  get  it  out  of  our  way.  We  are  the  Great 
Amalgamated  Crunch  Company.  Into  our  maw  goes 
respect  for  tradition,  reverence  for  the  dead,  decency, 
love  of  religion,  sentiment,  and  beauty.  These  are  back 
numbers.  In  their  place,  we  give  you  something  real 
and  up-to-date  from  basement  to  flagstaff,  with  fifty 
applicants  on  the  waiting  list.  If  you  don't  believe  it 
read  our  prospectus!" 

Peter  had  straightened  and  was  standing  with  his 
hand  lifted  above  his  head,  as  if  he  were  about  to 
pronounce  a  benediction.  Then  he  said  slowly,  and 
with  a  note  of  sadness  in  his  voice: 

"Do  you  wonder,  now,  my  boy,  why  I  touch  my 
hat  to  His  Excellency?" 


15 


CHAPTER  II 

All  the  way  up  Broadway  he  kept  up  his  good- 
natured  tirade,  railing  at  the  extravagance  of  the  age; 
at  the  costly  dinners,  equipages,  dress  of  the  women, 
until  we  reached  the  foot  of  the  dilapidated  flight  of 
brown-stone  steps  leading  to  the  front  door  of  his  home 
on  Fifteenth  Street.  Here  a  flood  of  gas  light  from 
inside  a  shop  in  the  basement  brought  into  view  the 
figure  of  a  short,  squat,  spectacled  little  man  bending 
over  a  cutting-table,  a  pair  of  shears  in  his  hand. 

"Isaac  is  still  at  work,"  he  cried.  "If  we  were 
not  so  late  we'd  go  in  and  have  a  word  with  him. 
Now  there's  a  man  who  has  solved  the  problem,  my 
boy.  Nobody  will  ever  coax  Isaac  Cohen  up  to  Fifth 
Avenue  and  into  a  'By  appointment  to  His  Majesty' 
kind  of  a  tailor  shop.  Just  pegs  away  year  after  year 
—he  was  here  long  before  I  came — supporting  his 
family,  storing  his  mind  with  all  sorts  of  rare  knowl- 
edge. Do  you  know  he's  one  of  the  most  delightful 
men  you  will  meet  in  a  day's  journey?" 

"No — never  knew  anything  of  the  kind.  Thought 
he  was  just  plain  tailor." 

"And  an  intimate  friend  of  many  of  the  English 
actors  who  come  over  here?"  continued  Peter. 

16 


PETER 

"I  never  heard  a  word  about  it,"  I  answered  meekly; 
Peter's  acquaintances  being  too  varied  and  too  numer- 
ous for  me  to  keep  track  of.  That  he  should  have  a 
tailor  among  them  as  learned  and  wise  as  Solomon, 
and  with  friends  all  over  the  globe,  was  quite  to  be 
expected. 

"Well,  he  is,"  answered  Peter.  "They  always  hunt 
him  up  the  first  thing  they  do.  He  lived  in  London 
for  years  and  made  their  costumes.  There's  no  one, 
I  assure  you,  I  am  more  glad  to  see  when  he  makes 
an  excuse  to  rap  at  my  door.  You'll  come  up,  of  course, 
until  I  read  my  letters." 

"No,  I'll  keep  on  to  my  rooms  and  meet  you  later 
at  the  club." 

"You'll  do  nothing  of  the  kind,  you  restless  mortal. 
You'll  come  upstairs  with  me  until  I  open  my  mail. 
It's  really  like  touching  the  spring  of  a  Jack-in-the-box, 
this  mail  of  mine — all  sorts  of  things  pop  out,  generally 
the  unexpected.  Mighty  interesting,  I  tell  you,"  and 
with  a  cheery  wave  of  the  hand  to  his  friend  Isaac, 
whose  eyes  had  been  looking  streetward  at  the  precise 
moment,  Peter  pushed  me  ahead  of  him  up  the  worn 
marble  steps  flanked  by  the  rust-eaten  iron  railing 
which  led  to  the  hallway  and  stairs,  and  so  on  up  to  his 
apartment. 

It  was  just  the  sort  of  house  Peter,  of  all  men  in  the 
world,  would  have  picked  out  to  live  in — and  he  had 
been  here  for  twenty  years  or  more.  Not  only  did  the 
estimable  Isaac  occupy  the  basement,  but  Madame 
Montini,  the  dress-maker,  had  the  first  floor  back;  a 

17 


PETER 

real-estate  agent  made  free  with  the  first  floor  front,  and 
a  very  worthy  teacher  of  music,  whose  piano  could  be 
heard  at  all  hours  of  the  day,  and  far  into  the  night, 
was  paying  rent  for  the  second,  both  front  and  back. 
Peter's  own  apartments  ran  the  whole  length  of  the 
third  floor,  immediately  under  the  slanting,  low-ceiled 
garret,  which  was  inhabited  by  the  good  Mrs.  McGuffey, 
the  janitress,  who,  in  addition  to  her  regular  duties, 
took  especial  care  of  Peter's  rooms.  Adjoining  these 
was  a  small  apartment  consisting  of  two  rooms,  con- 
necting with  Peter's  suite  by  a  door  cut  through  for 
some  former  lodger.  These  were  also  under  Mrs. 
McGuffey's  special  care  and  very  good  care  did  she 
take  of  them,  especially  when  Peter's  sister,  Miss  Felicia 
Grayson,  occupied  them  for  certain  weeks  in  the  year. 
These  changes  had  all  taken  place  in  the  time  the 
old  fellow  had  mounted  the  quaint  stairs  with  the  thin 
mahogany  banisters,  and  yet  Peter  stayed  on.  "The 
gnarled  pear  tree  in  the  back  yard  is  so  charming," 
he  would  urge  in  excuse,  "especially  in  the  spring, 
when  the  perfume  of  its  blossoms  fills  the  air,"  or, 
"the  view  overlooking  Union  Square  is  so  delightful," 
or,  "the  fireplace  has  such  a  good  draught."  What 
mattered  it  who  lived  next  door,  or  below,  or  overhead, 
for  that  matter,  so  that  he  was  not  disturbed — and  he 
never  was.  The  property,  of  course,  had  gone  from 
bad  to  worse  since  the  owner  had  died;  the  neighbor- 
hood had  run  down,  and  the  better  class  of  tenants — 
down,  up,  and  even  across  the  street — had  moved  away, 
but  none  of  these  things  had  troubled  Peter. 

18 


PETER 

And  no  wonder,  when  once  you  got  inside  the  two 
rooms  and  looked  about! 

There  was  a  four-post  bedstead  with  chintz  cur- 
tains draped  about  the  posts,  that  Martha  Washington 
might  have  slept  in,  and  a  chintz  petticoat  which  reached 
the  floor  and  hid  its  toes  of  rollers,  which  the  dear  lady 
could  have  made  with  her  own  hands;  there  was  a  most 
ancient  mahogany  bureau  to  match,  all  brass  fittings. 
There  were  easy  chairs  with  restful  arms  within  reach 
of  tables  holding  lamps,  ash  receivers  and  the  like;  and 
rows  and  rows  of  books  on  open  shelves  edged  with 
leather;  not  to  mention  engravings  of  distinguished 
men  and  old  portraits  in  heavy  gilt  frames;  one  of  his 
grandfather  who  fought  in  the  Revolution,  and  another 
of  his  mother — this  last  by  Rembrandt  Peale — a  dear 
old  lady  with  the  face  of  a  saint  framed  in  a  head  of 
gray  hair,  the  whole  surmounted  by  a  cluster  of  silvery 
curls.  There  were  quaint  brass  candelabra  with  square 
marble  bases  on  each  end  of  the  mantel,  holding  can- 
dles showing  burnt  wicks  in  the  day  time  and  cheery 
lights  at  night;  and  a  red  carpet  covering  both  rooms 
and  red  table  covers  and  red  damask  curtains,  and  a 
lounge  with  a  red  afghan  thrown  over  it;  and  last, 
but  by  no  means  least — in  fact  it  was  the  most  im- 
portant thing  in  the  sitting-room,  so  far  as  comfort  was 
concerned — there  was  a  big  open-hearth  Franklin, 
full  of  blazing  red  logs,  with  brass  andirons  and  fender, 
and  a  draught  of  such  marvellous  suction  that  stray 
scraps  of  paper,  to  say  nothing  of  uncommonly  large 
sparks,  had  been  known  more  than  once  to  have  been 

19 


PETER 

picked  up  in  a  jiffy  and  whirled  into  its  capacious 
throat. 

Just  the  very  background  for  dear  old  Peter,  I  always 
said,  whenever  I  watched  him  moving  about  the  cheery 
interior,  pushing  up  a  chair,  lighting  a  fresh  candle, 
or  replacing  a  book  on  the  shelf.  What  a  half-length 
the  great  Sully  would  have  made  of  him,  with  his 
high  collar,  white  shirt-front  and  wonderful  neck- 
cloth with  its  pleats  and  counterpleats,  to  say  nothing 
of  his  rosy  cheeks  and  bald  head,  the  high  light  glisten- 
ing on  one  of  his  big  bumps  of  benevolence.  And 
what  a  background  of  deep  reds  and  warm  mahoganys 
with  a  glint  of  yellow  brass  for  contrast! 

Indeed,  I  have  often  thought  that  not  only  Peter's 
love  of  red,  but  much  of  Peter's  quaintness  of  dress, 
had  been  suggested  by  some  of  the  old  portraits  which 
lined  the  walls  of  his  sitting-room — his  grandfather, 
by  Sully,  among  them;  and  I  firmly  believe,  although 
I  assure  you  I  have  never  mentioned  it  to  any  human 
being  before,  that  had  custom  permitted  (the  directors 
of  his  bank,  perhaps),  Peter  would  not  only  have  in- 
dulged in  the  high  coat-collar  and  quaint  neck-cloths 
of  his  fathers,  but  would  also  have  worn  a  dainty  cue 
tied  with  a  flowing  black  ribbon,  always  supposing, 
of  course,  that  his  hair  had  held  out,  and,  what  is  more 
important,  always  supposing,  that  the  wisp  was  long 
enough  to  hold  on. 

The  one  article,  however,  which,  more  than  any  other 
one  thing  in  his  apartment,  revealed  his  tastes  and 
habits,  was  a  long,  wide,  ample  mahogany  desk,  once 

20 


PETER 

the  property  of  an  ancestor,  which  stood  under  the 
window  in  the  front  room.  In  this,  ready  to  his  hand, 
were  drawers  little  and  big,  full  of  miscellaneous  papers 
and  envelopes;  pigeon-holes  crammed  full  of  answered 
and  unanswered  notes,  some  with  crests  on  them,  some 
with  plain  wax  clinging  to  the  flap  of  the  broken  en- 
velopes; many  held  together  with  the  gum  of  the 
common  world.  Here,  too,  were  bundles  of  old  letters 
tied  with  tape;  piles  of  pamphlets,  quaint  trays  holding 
pens  and  pencils,  and  here  too  was  always  to  be  found, 
in  summer  or  in  winter,  a  big  vase  full  of  roses  or 
blossoms,  or  whatever  was  in  season — a  luxury  he 
never  denied  himself. 

To  this  desk,  then,  Peter  betook  himself  the  moment 
he  had  hung  his  gray  surtout  on  its  hook  in  the  closet 
and  disposed  of  his  hat  and  umbrella.  This  was  his 
up-town  office,  really,  and  here  his  letters  awaited 
him. 

First  came  a  notice  of  the  next  meeting  of  the  Numis- 
matic Society  of  which  he  was  an  honored  member; 
then  a  bill  for  his  semi-annual  dues  at  the  Century 
Club;  next  a  delicately  scented  sheet  inviting  him  to 
dine  with  the  Van  Wormleys  of  Washington  Square, 
to  meet  an  English  lord  and  his  lady,  followed  by  a 
pressing  letter  to  spend  Sunday  with  friends  in  the 
country.  Then  came  a  long  letter  from  his  sister, 
Miss  Felicia  Grayson,  who  lived  in  the  Genesee  Valley, 
and  who  came  to  New  York  every  winter  for  what  she 
was  pleased  to  call  "The  Season"  (a  very  remarkable 
old  lady,  this  Miss  Felicia  Grayson,  with  a  mind  of 

21 


PETER 

her  own,  sections  of  which  she  did  not  hesitate  to 
ventilate  when  anybody  crossed  her  or  her  path,  and 
of  whom  we  shall  hear  more  in  these  pages),  together 
with  the  usual  assortment  of  bills  and  receipts,  the 
whole  an  enlivening  record  not  only  of  Peter's  daily 
life  and  range  of  taste,  but  of  the  limitations  of  his 
purse  as  well. 

One  letter  was  reserved  for  the  last.  This  he  held 
in  his  hand  until  he  again  ran  his  eye  over  the  pile 
before  him.  It  was  from  Holker  Morris  the  architect, 
a  man  who  stood  at  the  head  of  his  profession. 

"Yes,  Holker's  handwriting,"  he  said  as  he  inserted 
the  end  of  the  paper  cutter.  "  I  wonder  what  the  dear 
fellow  wants  now?"  Here  he  ran  his  eye  over  the 
first  page.  "  Listen,  Major.  What  an  extraordinary 
man.  .  .  .  He's  going  to  give  a  dinner,  he  says,  to  his 
draughtsmen  ...  in  his  offices  at  the  top  of  his  new 
building,  six  stories  up.  Does  the  rascal  think  I  have 
nothing  to  do  but  crawl  up  his  stairs  ?  Here,  I'll  read 
it  to  you." 

"'You,  dear  Peter:'  That's  just  like  Holker!  He 
begins  that  way  when  he  wants  me  to  do  something  for 
him.  '  No  use  saying  you  won't  come,  for  I  shall  be 
around  for  you  at  seven  o'clock  with  a  club — '  No, 
that's  not  it — he  writes  so  badly — 'with  a  cab.'  Yes, 
that's  it — 'with  a  cab.'  I  wonder  if  he  can  drive  me 
up  those  six  flights  of  stairs  ?  '  There'll  be  something 
to  eat,  and  drink,  and  there  will  be  fifty  or  more  of  my 
draughtsmen  and  former  employes.  I'm  going  to  give 
them  a  dinner  and  a  house-warming.  Bring  the 

22 


PETER 

Major  if  you  see  him.  I  have  sent  a  note  to  his  room, 
but  it  may  not  reach  him.  No  dress  suit,  remember. 
Some  of  my  men  wouldn't  know  one  if  they  saw  it." 

As  the  letter  dropped  from  Peter's  hand  a  scraping 
of  feet  was  heard  at  the  hall  door,  followed  by  a  cheery 
word  from  Mrs.  McGuffey — she  had  her  favorites 
among  Peter's  friends — and  Holker  Morris  burst  into 
the  room. 

"Ah,  caught  you  both!"  he  cried,  all  out  of  breath 
with  his  run  upstairs,  his  hat  still  on  his  head.  No 
one  blew  in  and  blew  out  of  Peter's  room  (literally  so) 
with  the  breeze  and  dash  of  the  distinguished  architect. 
"Into  your  coats,  you  two — we  haven' t  a  moment  to 
spare.  You  got  my  letter,  of  course,"  he  added,  throw- 
ing back  the  cape  of  his  raincoat. 

"Yes,  Holker,  just  opened  it!"  cried  Peter,  holding 
out  both  hands  to  his  guest.  "But  I'm  not  going. 
I  am  too  old  for  your  young  fellows — take  the  Major 
and  leave  me  behind." 

The  architect  grabbed  Peter  by  the  arm.  "When 
did  that  mighty  idea  crack  its  way  through  that  shell 
of  yours,  you  tottering  Methusaleh!  Old!  You're 
spryer  than  a  frolicking  lamb  in  March.  You  are 
coming,  too,  Major.  Get  into  your  coats  and  things ! " 

"But  Isaac  is  pressing  my  swallow-tail." 

"  I  don't  mean  your  dress-coat,  man — your  overcoat! 
Now  I  am  sure  you  didn't  read  my  letter  ?  Some  of  my 
young  fellows  haven't  got  such  a  thing — too  poor." 

"But  look  at  yours!" 

"Yes,  I  had  to  slip  into  mine  out  of  respect  to  the 
23 


PETER 

occasion ;  my  boys  wouldn't  like  it  if  I  didn't.  Sort  of 
uniform  to  them,  but  they'd  be  mighty  uncomfortable 
if  you  wore  yours.  Hurry  up,  we  haven't  a  minute 
to  lose." 

Peter  had  forced  the  architect  into  one  of  the  big 
chairs  by  the  fire  by  this  time,  and  stood  bending  over 
him,  his  hands  resting  on  Morris's  broad  shoulders. 

"Take  the  Major  with  you,  that's  a  good  fellow,  and 
let  me  drop  in  about  eleven  o'clock,"  he  pleaded,  an 
expression  on  his  face  seen  only  when  two  men  under- 
stand and  love  each  other.  "There's  a  letter  from 
Felicia  to  attend  to;  she  writes  she  is  coming  down 
for  a  couple  of  weeks,  and  then  I've  really  had  a  devil 
of  a  day  at  the  bank." 

"  No,  you  old  fraud,  you  can't  wheedle  me  that  way. 
I  want  you  before  everybody  sits  down,  so  my  young 
chaps  can  look  you  over.  Why,  Peter,  you're  better 
than  a  whole  course  of  lectures,  and  you  mean  some- 
thing, you  beggar!  I  tell  you"  (here  he  lifted  himself 
from  the  depths  of  the  chair  and  scrambled  to  his  feet) 
"you've  got  to  go  if  I  have  to  tie  your  hands  and  feet 
and  carry  you  downstairs  on  my  back!  And  you,  too, 
Major — both  of  you.  Here's  your  overcoat — into  it, 
you  humbug!  .  .  .  the  other  arm.  Is  this  your  hat? 
Out  you  go!"  and  before  I  had  stopped  laughing — I 
had  refused  to  crowd  the  cab — Morris  had  buttoned 
the  surtout  over  Peter's  breast,  crammed  the  straight- 
brimmed  hat  over  his  eyes,  and  the  two  were  clattering 
downstairs. 


24 


CHAPTER  III 

Long  before  the  two  had  reached  the  top  floor  of  the 
building  in  which  the  dinner  was  to  be  given,  they 
had  caught  the  hum  of  the  merrymakers,  the  sound 
bringing  a  smile  of  satisfaction  to  Peter's  face,  but  it 
was  when  he  entered  the  richly  colored  room  itself,  hazy 
with  cigarette  smoke,  and  began  to  look  into  the  faces 
of  the  guests  grouped  about  him  and  down  the  long 
table  illumined  by  myriads  of  wax  candles  that  all  his 
doubts  and  misgivings  faded  into  thin  air.  Never  since 
his  school  days,  he  told  me  afterwards,  had  he  seen  so 
many  boisterously  happy  young  fellows  grouped  to- 
gether. And  not  only  young  fellows,  with  rosy  cheeks 
and  bright  eyes,  but  older  men  with  thoughtful  faces, 
who  had  relinquished  for  a  day  the  charge  of  some  one 
of  the  important  buildings  designed  in  the  distinguished 
architect's  office,  and  had  spent  the  night  on  the  train 
that  they  might  do  honor  to  their  Chief. 

But  it  was  when  Morris,  with  his  arm  fast  locked  in 
his,  began  introducing  him  right  and  left  as  the  "  Guest 
of  Honor  of  the  Evening,"  the  two  shaking  hands  first 
with  one  and  then  another,  Morris  breaking  out  into 
joyous  salvos  of  welcome  over  some  arrival  from  a 
distant  city,  or  greeting  with  marked  kindness  and 

25 


PETER 

courtesy  one  of  the  younger  men  from  his  own  office, 
that  the  old  fellow's  enthusiasm  became  uncontrollable. 

"Isn't  it  glorious,  Holker!"  he  cried  joyously,  with 
uplifted  hands.  " Oh,  I'm  so  glad  I  came!  I  wouldn't 
have  missed  this  for  anything  in  the  world.  Did  you 
ever  see  anything  like  it  ?  This  is  classic,  my  boy — it 
has  the  tang  and  the  spice  of  the  ancients. 

Morris's  greeting  to  me  was  none  the  less  hearty,  al- 
though he  had  left  me  but  half  an  hour  before. 

"Late,  as  I  expected,  Major,"  he  cried  with  out- 
stretched hand,  "and  serves  you  right  for  not  sitting 
in  Peter's  lap  in  the  cab.  Somebody  ought  to  sit  on 
him  once  in  a  while.  He's  twenty  years  younger 
already.  Here,  take  this  seat  alongside  of  me  where 
you  can  keep  him  in  order — they  were  at  table  when 
I  entered.  Waiter,  bring  back  that  bottle—  Just  a 
light  claret,  Major — all  we  allow  ourselves." 

As  the  evening  wore  away  the  charm  of  the 
room  grew  upon  me.  Vistas  hazy  with  tobacco  smoke 
opened  up;  the  ceiling  lost  in  the  fog  gave  one  the 
impression  of  out-of-doors — like  a  roof-garden  at  night; 
a  delusion  made  all  the  more  real  by  the  happy  up- 
roar. And  then  the  touches  here  and  there  by  men 
whose  life  had  been  the  study  of  color  and  ef- 
fects; the  appointments  of  the  table,  the  massing  of 
flowers  relieving  the  white  cloth;  the  placing  of  shaded 
candles,  so  that  only  a  rosy  glow  filtered  through  the 
room,  softening  the  light  on  the  happy  faces — each 
scalp  crowned  with  chaplets  of  laurel  tied  with  red 
ribbons :  an  enchantment  of  color,  form  and  light  where 

26 


PETER 

but  an  hour  before  only  the  practical  and  the  com- 
monplace had  held  sway. 

No  vestige  of  the  business  side  of  the  offices  remained. 
Peter  pointed  out  to  me  a  big  plaster  model  of  the 
State  House,  which  filled  one  end  of  the  room,  and  two 
great  figures,  original  plaster  casts,  heroic  in  size,  that 
Harding,  the  sculptor,  had  modelled  for  either  side  of 
the  entrance  of  the  building;  but  everything  that 
smacked  of  T-square  or  scale  was  hidden  from  sight. 
In  their  place,  lining  the  walls,  stood  a  row  of  standards 
of  red  and  orange  silk,  stretched  on  rods  and  supported 
by  poles;  the  same  patterns  of  banners  which  were 
carried  before  Imperial  Csesars  when  they  took  an 
airing;  and  now  emblazoned  with  the  titles  of  the 
several  structures  conceived  in  the  brain  of  Holker 
Morris  and  executed  by  his  staff:  the  Imperial  Library 
in  Tokio;  the  great  Corn  Exchange  covering  a  city 
block;  the  superb  Art  Museum  crowning  the  highest 
hill  in  the  Park;  the  beautiful  chateau  of  the  millionaire 
surrounded  by  thousands  of  acres  of  virgin  forest;  the 
spacious  warehouses  on  the  water  front,  and  many 
others. 

With  the  passing  of  the  flagons  an  electric  current 
of  good  fellowship  flashed  around  the  circle.  Stories 
that  would  have  been  received  with  but  a  bare  smile 
at  the  club  were  here  greeted  with  shouts  of  laughter. 
Bon-mots,  skits,  puns  and  squibs  mouldy  with  age  or 
threadbare  with  use,  were  told  with  a  new  gusto  and 
welcomed  with  delight. 

Suddenly,  and  without  any  apparent  reason,  there 
27 


PETER 

burst  forth  a  roar  like  that  of  a  great  orchestra  with 
every  instrument  played  at  its  loudest — rounds  of  ap- 
plause from  kettle-drums,  trombones  and  big  horns; 
screams  of  laughter  from  piccolos,  clarionettes  and 
flutes,  buzzings  of  subdued  talk  by  groups  of  bass 
viols  and  the  lesser  strings,  the  whole  broken  by  the 
ringing  notes  of  a  song  that  soared  for  an  instant  clear 
of  the  din,  only  to  be  overtaken  and  drowned  in  the 
mighty  shout  of  approval.  This  was  followed  by  a 
stampede  from  the  table;  the  banners  were  caught  up 
with  a  mighty  shout  and  carried  around  the  room; 
Morris,  boy  for  the  moment,  springing  to  his  feet  and 
joining  in  the  uproar. 

The  only  guest  who  kept  his  chair,  except  Peter  and 
myself,  was  a  young  fellow  two  seats  away,  whose  eyes, 
brilliant  with  excitement,  followed  the  merrymaking, 
but  who  seemed  too  much  abashed,  or  too  ill  at  ease, 
to  join  in  the  fun.  I  had  noticed  how  quiet  he  was 
and  wondered  at  the  cause.  Peter  had  also  been 
watching  the  boy  and  had  said  to  me  that  he  had  a 
good  face  and  was  evidently  from  out  of  town. 

"Why  don't  you  get  up?"  Peter  called  to  him  at 
last.  "Up  with  you,  my  lad.  This  is  one  of  the  times 
when  every  one  of  you  young  fellows  should  be  on 
your  feet."  He  would  have  grabbed  a  banner  himself 
had  any  one  given  him  the  slightest  encouragement. 

"I  would,  sir,  but  I'm  out  of  it,"  said  the  young  man 
with  a  deferential  bow,  moving  to  the  empty  seat  next 
to  Peter.  He  too  had  been  glancing  at  Peter  from 
time  to  time. 

28 


PETER 

"Aren't  you  with  Mr.  Morris  ?" 

"No,  I  wish  I  were.  I  came  with  my  friend,  Garry 
Minott,  that  young  fellow  carrying  the  banner  with 
'Corn  Exchange*  marked  on  it." 

"And  may  I  ask,  then,  what  you  do?"  continued 
Peter. 

The  young  fellow  looked  into  the  older  man's  kindly 
eyes — something  in  their  expression  implied  a  wish  to 
draw  him  the  closer — and  said  quite  simply:  "I  don't 
do  anything  that  is  of  any  use,  sir.  Garry  says  that  I 
might  as  well  work  in  a  faro  bank." 

Peter  leaned  forward.  For  the  moment  the  hubbub 
was  forgotten  as  he  scrutinized  the  young  man,  who 
seemed  scarcely  twenty-one,  his  well-knit,  well-dressed 
body,  his  soft  brown  hair  curled  about  his  scalp,  cleanly 
modelled  ears,  steady  brown  eyes,  white  teeth — especially 
the  mobile  lips  which  seemed  quivering  from  some 
suppressed  emotion — all  telling  of  a  boy  delicately 
nurtured. 

"And  do  you  really  work  in  a  faro  bank?"  Peter's 
knowledge  of  human  nature  had  failed  him  for  once. 

"Oh,  no  sir,  that  is  only  one  of  Garry's  jokes.  I'm 
clerk  in  a  stock  broker's  office  on  Wall  Street.  Arthur 
Breen  &  Company.  My  uncle  is  head  of  the  firm." 

"Oh,  that's  it,  is  it?"  answered  Peter  in  a  relieved 
tone. 

"And  now  will  you  tell  me  what  your  business  is,  sir  ?" 
asked  the  young  man.  "You  seem  so  different  from 
the  others." 

"Me!  Oh,  I  take  care  of  the  money  your  gamblers 
29 


PETER 

win,"  replied  Peter,   at  which  they  both  laughed,  a 
spark  of  sympathy  being  kindled  between  them. 

Then,  seeing  the  puzzled  expression  on  the  boy's 
face,  he  added  with  a  smile:  "I'm  Receiving  Teller 
in  a  bank,  one  of  the  oldest  in  Wall  Street." 

A  look  of  relief  passed  over  the  young  fellow's  face. 

"I'm  very  glad,  sir,"  he  said,  with  a  smile.  "Do 
you  know,  sir,  you  look  something  like  my  own  father 
—what  I  can  remember  of  him — that  is,  he  was — 
The  lad  checked  himself,  fearing  he  might  be  dis- 
courteous. "That  is,  he  had  lost  his  hair,  sir,  and  he 
wore  his  cravats  like  you,  too.  I  have  his  portrait  in 
my  room." 

Peter  leaned  still  closer  to  the  speaker.  This  time 
he  laid  his  hand  on  his  arm.  The  tumult  around  him 
made  conversation  almost  impossible.  "And  now 
tell  me  your  name  ? " 

"My  name  is  Breen,  sir.  John  Breen.  I  live  with 
my  uncle." 

The  roar  of  the  dinner  now  became  so  fast  and 
furious  that  further  confidences  were  impossible.  The 
banners  had  been  replaced  and  every  one  was  reseated, 
talking  or  laughing.  On  one  side  raged  a  discussion 
as  to  how  far  the  decoration  of  a  plain  surface  should 
go — "Roughing  it,"  some  of  them  called  it.  At  the 
end  of  the  table  two  men  were  wrangling  as  to  whether 
the  upper  or  the  lower  half  of  a  tall  structure  should 
have  its  vertical  lines  broken;  and,  if  so,  by  what. 
Further  down  high-keyed  voices  were  crying  out 
against  the  abomination  of  the  flat  roof  on  the  more 

30 


PETER 

costly  buildings;  wondering  whether  some  of  their 
clients  would  wake  up  to  the  necessity  of  breaking  the 
sky-line  with  something  less  ugly — even  if  it  did  cost 
a  little  more.  Still  a  third  group  were  in  shouts  of 
laughter  over  a  story  told  by  one  of  the  staff  who  had 
just  returned  from  an  inspection  trip  west. 

Young  Breen  looked  down  the  length  of  the  table, 
watched  for  a  moment  a  couple  of  draughtsmen  who 
stood  bowing  and  drinking  to  each  other  in  mock 
ceremony  out  of  the  quaint  glasses  filled  from  the 
borrowed  flagons,  then  glanced  toward  his  friend 
Minott,  just  then  the  centre  of  a  cyclone  that  was 
stirring  the  group  midway  the  table. 

"Come  over  here,  Garry,"  he  called,  half  rising  to 
his  feet  to  attract  his  friend's  attention. 

Minott  waved  his  hand  in  answer,  waited  until  the 
point  of  the  story  had  been  reached,  and  made  his  way 
toward  Peter's  end  of  the  table. 

"Garry,"  he  whispered,  "I  want  to  introduce  you  to 
Mr.  Grayson — the  very  dearest  old  gentleman  you  ever 
met  in  your  whole  life.  Sits  right  next  to  me. " 

"What,  that  old  fellow  that  looks  like  a  billiard  ball 
in  a  high  collar?"  muttered  Minott  with  a  twinkle 
in  his  eye.  "We've  been  wondering  where  Mr.  Morris 
dug  him  up." 

"Hush,"  said  Breen— "he'll  hear  you." 

"All  right,  but  hurry  up.  I  must  say  he  doesn't 
look  near  so  bad  when  you  get  close  to  him." 

"Mr.  Grayson,  I  want  you  to  know  my  friend  Garry 
Minott." 

31 


PETER 

Peter  rose  to  his  feet.  "  I  do  know  him,"  he  said,  hold- 
ing out  his  hand  cordially.  "  I've  been  knowing  him  all 
the  evening.  He's  made  most  of  the  fun  at  his  end  of 
the  table.  You  seem  to  have  flaunted  your  Corn  Ex- 
change banner  on  the  smallest  provocation,  Mr.  Minott," 
and  Peter's  ringers  gripped  those  of  the  young  man. 

"That's  because  I've  been  in  charge  of  the  inside 
work.  Great  dinner,  isn't  it,  Mr.  Grayson.  But  it's 
Britton  who  has  made  the  dinner.  He's  more  fun 
than  a  Harlem  goat  with  a  hoopskirt.  See  him — that's 
Brit  with  a  red  head  and  blue  neck-tie.  He's  been  all 
winter  in  Wisconsin  looking  after  some  iron  work  and 
has  come  back  jam  full  of  stories."  The  dignity  of 
Peter's  personality  had  evidently  not  impressed  the 
young  man,  judging  from  the  careless  tone  with  which 
he  addressed  him.  "And  how  are  you  getting  on, 
Jack — glad  you  came,  arn't  you?"  As  he  spoke  he 
laid  his  hand  affectionately  on  the  boy's  shoulder. 
"Didn't  I  tell  you  it  would  be  a  corker?  Out  of  sight, 
isn't  it?  Everything  is  out  of  sight  around  our  office." 
This  last  remark  was  directed  to  Peter  in  the  same 
casual  way. 

"I  should  say  that  every  stopper  was  certainly  out," 
answered  Peter  in  graver  tones.  He  detested  slang 
and  would  never  understand  it.  Then  again  the 
bearing  and  air  of  Jack's  friend  jarred  on  him.  "You 

know,  of  course,  the  old  couplet — '  When  the  wine  flows 

ii    ) )) 

"No,  I  don't  know  it,"  interrupted  Minott  with  an 
impatient  glance.  "I'm  not  much  on  poetry — but 

32 


PETER 

you  can  bet  your  bottom  dollar  it's  flowing  all  right." 
Then  seeing  the  shade  of  disappointment  on  Breen's 
face  at  the  flippant  way  in  which  he  had  returned 
Peter's  courtesies,  but  without  understanding  the 
cause,  he  added,  tightening  his  arm  around  his  friend's 
neck,  "Brace  up,  Jack,  old  man,  and  let  yourself  go. 
That's  what  I'm  always  telling  Jack,  Mr.  Grayson. 
He's  got  to  cut  loose  from  a  lot  of  old-fashioned  notions 
that  he  brought  from  home  if  he  wants  to  get  anywhere 
around  here.  I  had  to." 

"What  do  you  want  him  to  give  up,  Mr.  Minott?" 
Peter  had  put  on  his  glasses  now,  and  was  inspecting 
Garry  at  closer  range. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know — just  get  into  the  swing  of  things 
and  let  her  go." 

"That  is  no  trouble  for  you  to  do,"  rejoined  Jack, 
looking  into  his  friend's  face.  "You're  doing  some- 
thing that's  worth  while." 

"Well,  aren't  you  doing  something  that's  worth 
while?  Why  you'll  be  a  millionaire  if  you  keep  on. 
First  thing  you  know  the  lightning  will  strike  you  just 
as  it  did  your  uncle." 

Morris  leaned  forward  at  the  moment  and  called 
Minott  by  name.  Instantly  the  young  man's  manner 
changed  to  one  of  respectful  attention  as  he  stepped  to 
his  Chief's  side. 

"Yes,  Mr.  Morris." 

"You  tell  the  men  up  your  way  to  get  ready  to  come 
to  order,  or  we  won't  get  through  in  time — it's  getting 
late. 

33 


PETER 

"All  right,  sir,  I'll  take  care  of  'em.  Just  as  soon 
as  you  begin  to  speak  you  won't  hear  a  sound." 

As  Minott  moved  from  Morris's  seat  another  and 
louder  shout  arose  from  the  other  end  of  the  table : 

"Garry,  Garry,  hurry  up!"  came  the  cry.  It  was 
evident  the  young  man  was  very  popular. 

Peter  dropped  his  glasses  from  his  nose,  and  turning 
toward  Morris  said  in  a  low  voice: 

"That's  a  very  breezy  young  man,  Holker,  the  one 
who  has  just  left  us.  Got  something  in  him,  has  he, 
besides  noise?" 

"Yes,  considerable.  Wants  toning  down  once  in  a 
while,  but  there's  no  question  of  his  ability  or  of 
his  loyalty.  He  never  shirks  a  duty  and  never  forgets  a 
kindness.  Queer  combination  when  you  think  of  it, 
Peter.  What  he  will  make  of  himself  is  another 
matter." 

Peter  drew  his  body  back  and  sent  his  thoughts  out 
on  an  investigating  tour.  He  was  wondering  what 
effect  the  influence  of  a  young  man  like  Minott  would 
have  on  a  young  man  like  Breen. 

The  waiters  at  this  point  brought  in  huge  trays 
holding  bowls  of  tobacco  and  long  white  clay  pipes, 
followed  by  even  larger  trays  bearing  coffee  in  little 
cups.  Morris  waited  a  moment  and  then  rapped  for 
order.  Instantly  a  hush  fell  upon  the  noisy  room; 
plates  and  glasses  were  pushed  back  so  as  to  give  the 
men  elbow  room;  pipes  were  hurriedly  lighted,  and 
each  guest  turned  his  chair  so  as  to  face  the  Chief, 
who  was  now  on  his  feet. 

34 


PETER 

As  he  stood  erect,  one  hand  behind  his  back,  the 
other  stretched  toward  the  table  in  his  appeal  for 
silence,  I  thought  for  the  hundredth  time  how  kind 
his  fifty  years  had  been  to  him;  how  tightly  knit  his 
figure;  how  well  his  clothes  became  him,  A  hand- 
some, well-groomed  man  at  all  times  and  in  any  cos- 
tume— but  never  so  handsome  or  so  well  groomed  as 
in  evening  dress.  Everything  in  his  make-up  helped: 
The  broad,  square  shoulders,  arms  held  close  to  his 
side;  flat  waist;  incurving  back  and  narrow  hips. 
His  well-modelled,  aristocratic  head,  too,  seemed  to 
gain  increased  distinction  when  it  rose  clear  from  a 
white  shirt-front  which  served  as  a  kind  of  marble 
pedestal  for  his  sculptured  head.  There  was,  more- 
over, in  his  every  move  and  look,  that  quality  of  trans- 
parent sincerity  which  always  won  him  friends  at  sight. 
"If  men's  faces  are  clocks,"  Peter  always  said,  "Hol- 
ker's  is  fitted  with  a  glass  dial.  You  can  not  only  see 
what  time  it  is,  but  you  can  see  the  wheels  that  move 
his  heart." 

He  was  about  to  speak  now,  his  eyes  roaming  the 
room  waiting  for  the  last  man  to  be  still.  No  fumbling 
of  glasses  or  rearranging  of  napkin,  but  erect,  with  a 
certain  fearless  air  that  was  as  much  a  part  of  his 
nature  as  was  his  genius  Beginning  in  a  clear,  dis- 
tinct voice  which  reached  every  ear  in  the  room,  he 
told  them  first  how  welcome  they  were.  How  great 
an  honor  it  was  for  him  to  have  them  so  close  to  him — 
so  close  that  he  could  look  into  all  their  faces  with  one 
glance;  not  only  those  who  came  from  a  distance  but 

35 


PETER 

those  of  his  personal  staff,  to  whom  really  the  success 
of  the  year's  work  had  been  due.  As  for  himself,  he 
was,  as  they  knew,  only  the  lead  horse  in  the  team, 
going  ahead  to  show  them  the  way,  while  they  did  the 
effective  pulling  that  brought  the  load  to  market! 
Here  he  slipped  his  hand  in  his  pocket,  took  from  it  a 
small  box  which  he  laid  beside  his  plate,  and  con- 
tinued : 

"At  these  festivals,  as  you  know,  and  if  my  memory 
serves  me  this  is  our  third,  it  has  always  been  our  cus- 
tom to  give  some  slight  token  of  our  appreciation  to 
the  man  who  has  done  most  during  the  year  to  further 
the  work  of  the  office.  This  has  always  been  a  difficult 
thing  to  decide,  because  every  one  of  you,  without  a 
single  exception,  has  given  the  best  that  is  in  you  in  the 
general  result.  Three  years  ago,  you  remember,  it 
was  awarded  to  the  man  who  by  common  consent 
had  carried  to  completion,  and  without  a  single  error, 
the  detailed  drawings  of  the  Museum  which  was 
finished  last  year.  I  am  looking  at  you,  Mr.  Downey, 
and  again  congratulate  you.  Last  year  it  was  awarded 
to  Mr.  Buttrick  for  the  masterly  way  with  which  he 
put  together  the  big  arches  of  the  Government  ware- 
houses— a  man  whom  it  would  have  been  my  pleasure 
to  congratulate  again  to-night  had  it  been  possible 
for  him  to  reach  us.  To-night  I  think  you  will  all 
agree  with  me  that  this  small  token,  not  only  of  my 
own,  but  of  your  l  personal  regard  and  appreciation ' '' 
(here  he  opened  the  box  and  took  from  it  a  man's 
ring  set  with  three  jewels),  "should  be  given  to  the 

36 


PETER 

man  who  has  carried  out  in  so  thorough  a  way  the  part 
allotted  to  him  in  the  Corn  Exchange,  and  who  is  none 
other  than  Mr.  Garrison  Minott,  who  for " 

The  rest  of  the  sentence  was  lost  in  the  uproar. 

"Garry!  Garry!  Garry  Minott!"  came  from  all 
parts  of  the  room.  "Bully  for  Garry!  You  deserve 
it,  old  man!  Three  cheers  for  Garry  Minott!  Hip 
.  .  .  Hip  .  .  .!" 

Morris's  voice  now  dominated  the  room. 

"Come  this  way,  Mr.  Minott." 

The  face  of  the  young  superintendent,  which  had 
been  in  a  broad  laugh  all  the  evening,  grew  white  and 
red  by  turns.  Out  of  pure  astonishment  he  could 
neither  move  nor  speak. 

"All  right — stay  where  you  are!"  cried  Morris 
laughing.  "Pass  it  up  to  him,  please." 

John  Breen  sprang  from  his  chair  with  the  alertness 
of  a  man  who  had  been  accustomed  to  follow  his 
impulse.  In  his  joy  over  his  friend's  good  fortune  he 
forgot  his  embarrassment,  forgot  that  he  was  a  stranger; 
forgot  that  he  alone,  perhaps,  was  the  only  young  man 
in  the  room  whose  life  and  training  had  not  fitted  him 
for  the  fullest  enjoyment  of  what  was  passing  around 
him;  forgot  everything,  in  fact,  but  that  his  comrade, 
his  friend,  his  chum,  had  won  the  highest  honors  his 
Chief  could  bestow. 

With  cheeks  aflame  he  darted  to  Morris's  chair: 

"Let  me  hand  it  to  him,  sir,"  he  cried,  all  the  love 
for  his  friend  in  his  eyes,  seizing  the  ring  and  plunging 
toward  Garry,  the  shouts  increasing  as  he  neared  his 

37 


PETER 

side  and  placed  the  prize  in  his  hand.  Only  then 
did  Minott  find  his  breath  and  his  feet. 

"  Why,  Mr.  Morris!—  Why,  fellows!—  Why,  there's 
plenty  of  men  in  the  office  who  have  done  more  than 
I  have  to " 

Then  he  sat  down,  the  ring  fast  in  his  hand. 

When  the  applause  had  subsided — the  young  fel- 
low's modesty  had  caused  a  fresh  outburst — Morris 
again  rose  in  his  chair  and  once  more  the  room  grew 
still. 

"Twelve  o'clock,  gentlemen,"  he  said.  "Mr.  Dow- 
ney, you  are  always  our  stand-by  in  starting  the  old 
hymn." 

The  diners — host  and  guests  alike — rose  to  their  feet 
as  one  man.  Then  to  Peter's  and  my  own  intense 
surprise  that  most  impressive  of  all  chants,  the  Doxology 
in  long  metre,  surged  out,  gaining  in  volume  and 
strength  as  its  strains  were  caught  up  by  the  different 
voices. 

With  the  ending  of  the  grand  old  hymn — it  had  been 
sung  with  every  mark  of  respect  by  every  man  in  the 
room — John  Breen  walked  back  to  his  chair,  leaned 
toward  Peter,  and  with  an  apologetic  tone  in  his  voice 
— he  had  evidently  noticed  the  unfavorable  impression 
that  Garry  had  made  on  his  neighbor — said: 

"Don't  misjudge  Garry,  Mr.  Grayson;  he's  the 
kindest  hearted  fellow  in  the  world  when  you  know 
him.  He's  a  little  rough  sometimes,  as  you  can  see, 
but  he  doesn't  mean  it.  He  thinks  his  way  of  talking 
and  acting  is  what  he  calls  'up-to-date.'"  Then  he 

38 


PETER 

added  with  a  sigh:  "I  wish  I  had  a  ring  like  that — 
one  that  I  had  earned.  I  tell  you,  Mr.  Grayson, 
that's  something  worth  while." 

Peter  laid  his  hand  on  the  young  man's  shoulder 
and  looked  him  straight  in  the  face,  the  same  look  in 
his  eyes  that  a  proud  father  would  have  given  a  son 
who  had  pleased  him.  He  had  heard  with  delight  the 
boy's  defence  of  his  friend  and  he  had  read  the  boy's 
mind  as  he  sang  the  words  of  the  hymn,  his  face  grave, 
his  whole  attitude  one  of  devotion.  "You'd  think*  he 
was  in  his  father's  pew  at  home,"  Peter  had  whispered 
to  me  with  a  smile.  It  was  the  latter  outburst  though 
— the  one  that  came  with  a  sigh — that  stirred  him  most. 

"And  you  would  really  have  liked  a  ring  yourself, 
my  lad?" 

"Would  I  like  it!  Why,  Mr.  Grayson,  I'd  rather 
have  had  Mr.  Morris  give  me  a  thing  like  that  and 
deserved  it,  than  have  all  the  money  you  could  pile  on 
this  table." 

One  of  those  sudden  smiles  which  his  friends  loved 
so  well  irradiated  Peter's  face. 

"Keep  on  the  way  you're  going,  my  son,"  he  said, 
seizing  the  boy's  hand,  a  slight  tremble  in  his  voice, 
"and  you'll  get  a  dozen  of  them." 

"  How  ?"    The  boy's  eyes  were  wide  in  wonderment. 

"By  being  yourself.  Don't  let  go  of  your  ideals 
no  matter  what  Minott  or  anybody  else  says.  Let  him 
go  his  way  and  do  you  keep  on  in  yours.  Don't  .  .  . 
but  I  can't  talk  here.  Come  and  see  me.  I  mean  it." 

Breen's  eyes  glistened.     "When?" 
39 


PETER 

"To-morrow  night,  at  my  rooms.  Here's  my  card. 
And  you,  too,  Mr.  Minott — glad  to  see  both  of  you." 
Garry  has  just  joined  them. 

"Thanks  awfully,"  answered  Minott.  "Fm  very 
sorry,  Mr.  Grayson,  but  I'm  booked  for  a  supper  at 
the  Magnolia.  "Lot  of  the  fellows  want  to  whoop  up 
this — "and  he  held  the  finger  bearing  the  ring  within  an 
inch  of  Peter's  nose.  "And  they  want  you,  too,  Jack." 

"No,  please  let  me  have  him,"  Peter  urged.  Minott, 
I  could  see,  he  did  not  want;  Breen  he  was  determined 
to  have. 

"I  would  love  to  come,  sir,  and  it's  very  kind  of  you 
to  ask  me.  There's  to  be  a  dance  at  my  uncle's  to- 
morrow night,  though  I  reckon  I  can  be  excused. 
Would  you — would  you  come  to  see  me  instead?  I 
want  you  to  see  my  father's  portrait.  It's  not  you, 
and  yet  it's  like  you  when  you  turn  your  head;  and 
there  are  some  other  things.  I'd  like — "  Here  the 
boy  stopped. 

Peter  considered  for  a  moment.  Calling  at  the  house 
of  a  man  he  did  not  know,  even  to  continue  the  ac- 
quaintance of  so  charming  a  young  fellow  as  his  nephew, 
was  not  one  of  the  things  punctilious  Mr.  Grayson — 
punctilious  as  to  forms  of  etiquette — was  accustomed 
to  do.  The  young  man  read  his  thoughts  and  added 
quickly: 

"Of  course  I'll  do  just  as  you  say,  but  if  you  only 
would  come  we  will  be  entirely  alone  and  won't  see 
anybody  else  in  the  house." 

"But  couldn't  you  possibly  come  to  me?"  Peter 
40 


PETER 

urged.  The  fact  that  young  Breen  had  a  suite  of 
rooms  so  sequestered  as  to  be  beyond  the  reach  even 
of  a  dance,  altered  the  situation  to  some  extent,  but  he 
was  still  undecided.  "I  live  all  alone  when  my  sister 
is  not  with  me,  and  I,  too,  have  many  things  I  am  sure 
would  interest  you.  Say  you'll  come  now — I  shall 
expect  you,  shall  I  not?" 

The  boy  hesitated.  "You  may  not  know  exactly 
what  I  mean,"  he  said  slowly.  "Maybe  you  can't 
understand,  for  everybody  about  here  seems  to  love 
you,  and  you  must  have  lots  of  friends.  The  fact  is, 
I  feel  out  of  everything.  I  get  pretty  lonely  sometimes. 
Garry,  here,  never  stays  five  minutes  when  he  comes 
to  see  me,  so  many  people  are  after  him  all  the  time. 
Please  say  you'll  come!" 

There  was  a  note  in  the  boy's  voice  that  swept  away 
all  the  older  man's  scruples. 

"Come,  my  son!  Of  course  I'll  come,"  burst  out 
Peter.  "I'll  be  there  at  nine  o'clock." 

As  Morris  and  the  others  passed  between  the  table 
and  the  wall  on  their  way  to  the  cloak-room,  Minott, 
who  had  listened  to  the  whole  conversation,  waited 
until  he  thought  Peter  had  gone  ahead,  and  then, 
with  an  impatient  gesture,  said: 

"What  the  devil,  Jack,  do  you  want  to  waste  your 
time  over  an  old  fellow  like  that  for?" 

"Oh,  Garry,  don't " 

"Don't!  A  bald-headed  old  pill  who  ought  to 
have " 

Then  the  two  passed  out  of  hearing. 
41 


CHAPTER  IV 

Breakfast — any  meal  for  that  matter — in  the  high- 
wainscoted,  dark-as-a-pocket  dining-room  of  the  suc- 
cessful Wall  Street  broker — the  senior  member  of  the 
firm  of  A.  Breen  &  Co.,  uncle,  guardian  and  employer  of 
the  fresh,  rosy-cheeked  lad  who  sat  next  to  Peter  on  the 
night  of  Morris's  dinner,  was  never  a  joyous  func- 
tion. 

The  room  itself,  its  light  shut  out  by  the  adjoining 
extensions,  prevented  it;  so  did  the  glimpse  of  hard 
asphalt  covering  the  scrap  of  a  yard,  its  four  melan- 
choly posts  hung  about  with  wire  clothes-lines;  and 
so  did  the  clean-shaven,  smug-faced  butler,  who  in- 
variably conducted  his  master's  guests  to  their  chairs 
with  the  movement  of  an  undertaker,  and  who  had 
never  been  known  to  crack  a  smile  of  any  kind,  long 
or  short,  during  his  five  years'  sojourn  with  the  family 
of  Breen. 

Not  that  anybody  wanted  Parkins  to  crack  one, 
that  is,  not  his  master,  and  certainly  not  his  mistress, 
and  most  assuredly  not  his  other  mistress,  Miss  Corinne, 
the  daughter  of  the  lady  whom  the  successful  Wall 
Street  broker  had  made  his  first  and  only  wife. 

All  this  gloomy  atmosphere  might  have  been  changed 
for  the  better  had  there  been  a  big,  cheery  open  wood  fire 

42 


PETER 

snapping  and  blazing  away,  sputtering  out  its  good 
morning  as  you  entered — and  there  would  have  been  if 
any  one  of  the  real  inmates  had  insisted  upon  it — fought 
for  it,  if  necessary;  or  if  in  summer  one  could  have  seen 
through  the  curtained  windows  a  stretch  of  green  grass 
with  here  and  there  a  tree,  or  one  or  two  twisted  vines 
craning  their  necks  to  find  out  what  was  going  on 
inside;  or  if  in  any  or  all  seasons,  a  wholesome,  happy- 
hearted,  sunny  wife  looking  like  a  bunch  of  roses  just 
out  of  a  bath,  had  sat  behind  the  smoking  coffee-urn, 
inquiring  whether  one  or  two  lumps  of  sugar  would  be 
enough ;  or  a  gladsome  daughter  who,  in  a  sudden  burst 
of  affection,  had  thrown  her  arms  around  her  father's 
neck  and  kissed  him  because  she  loved  him,  and  be- 
cause she  wanted  his  day  and  her  day  to  begin  that 
way: — if,  I  say,  there  had  been  all,  or  one-half,  or 
one-quarter  of  these  things,  the  atmosphere  of  this 
sepulchral  interior  might  have  been  improved — but 
there  wasn't. 

There  was  a  wife,  of  course,  a  woman  two  years  older 
than  Arthur  Breen — the  relict  of  a  Captain  Barker, 
an  army  officer — who  had  spent  her  early  life  in  mov- 
ing from  one  army  post  to  another  until  she  had  settled 
down  in  Washington,  where  Breen  had  married  her, 
and  where  the  Scribe  first  met  her.  But  this  sharer 
of  the  fortunes  of  Breen  preferred  her  breakfast  in 
bed,  New  York  life  having  proved  even  more  wearing 
than  military  upheavals.  And  there  was  also  a  daugh- 
ter, Miss  Corinne  Barker,  Captain  and  Mrs.  Barker's 
only  offspring,  who  had  known  nothing  of  army  posts, 

43 


PETER 

except  as  a  child,  but  who  had  known  everything  of 
Washington  life  from  the  time  she  was  twelve  until  she 
was  fifteen,  and  she  was  now  twenty;  but  that  young 
woman,  I  regret  to  say,  also  breakfasted  in  bed,  where 
her  maid  had  special  instructions  not  to  disturb  her 
until  my  lady's  jewelled  fingers  touched  a  button  within 
reach  of  her  dainty  hand;  whereupon  another  instal- 
ment of  buttered  rolls  and  coffee  would  be  served  with 
such  accessories  of  linen,  porcelain  and  silver  as  be- 
fitted the  appetite  and  station  of  one  so  beautiful  and 
so  accomplished. 

These  conditions  never  ceased  to  depress  Jack. 
Fresh  from  a  life  out  of  doors,  accustomed  to  an  old- 
fashioned  dining-room — the  living  room,  really,  of 
the  family  who  had  cared  for  him  since  his  father's 
death,  where  not  only  the  sun  made  free  with  the  open 
doors  and  windows,  but  the  dogs  and  neighbors  as 
well — the  sober  formality  of  this  early  meal — all  of 
his  uncle's  meals,  for  that  matter — sent  shivers  down 
his  back  that  chilled  him  to  the  bone. 

He  had  looked  about  him  the  first  morning  of  his 
arrival,  had  noted  the  heavy  carved  sideboard  laden 
with  the  garish  silver;  had  examined  the  pictures 
lining  the  walls,  separated  from  the  dark  background 
of  leather  by  heavy  gold  frames;  had  touched  with  his 
fingers  the  dial  of  the  solemn  bronze  clock,  flanked 
by  its  equally  solemn  candelabra;  had  peered  between 
the  steel  andirons,  bright  as  carving  knives,  and  into 
the  freshly  varnished,  spacious  chimney  up  which  no 
dancing  blaze  had  ever  whirled  in  madcap  glee  since 

44 


PETER 

the  mason's  trowel  had  left  it  and  never  would  to  the 
end  of  time, — not  as  long  as  the  steam  heat  held  out; 
had  watched  the  crane-like  step  of  Parkins  as  he 
moved  about  the  room — cold,  immaculate,  impassive; 
had  listened  to  his  "Yes,  sir — thank  you,  sir,  very  good, 
sir,"  until  he  wanted  to  take  him  by  the  throat  and 
shake  something  spontaneous  and  human  out  of  him, 
and  as  each  cheerless  feature  passed  in  review  his 
spirits  had  sunk  lower  and  lower. 

This,  then,  was  what  he  could  expect  as  long  as  he 
lived  under  his  uncle's  roof — a  period  of  time  which 
seemed  to  him  must  stretch  out  into  dim  futurity. 
No  laughing  halloos  from  passing  neighbors  through 
wide-open  windows;  no  Aunt  Hannahs  running  in 
with  a  plate  of  cakes  fresh  from  the  griddle  which 
would  cool  too  quickly  if  she  waited  for  that  slow- 
coach of  a  Tom  to  bring  them  to  her  young  master. 
No  sweep  of  leaf-covered  hills  seen  through  bending 
branches  laden  with  blossoms;  no  stretch  of  sky  or 
slant  of  sunshine;  only  a  grim,  funereal,  artificial 
formality,  as  ungenial  and  flattening  to  a  boy  of  his 
tastes,  education  and  earlier  environment  as  a  State 
asylum's  would  have  been  to  a  red  Indian  fresh  from 
the  prairie. 

On  the  morning  after  Morris's  dinner  (within  eight 
hours  really  of  the  time  when  he  had  been  so  thrilled 
by  the  singing  of  the  Doxology),  Jack  was  in  his  ac- 
customed seat  at  the  small,  adjustable  accordion-built 
table — it  could  be  stretched  out  to  accommodate 
twenty-four  covers — when  his  uncle  entered  this  room. 

45 


PETER 

Parkins  was  genuflecting  at  the  time  with  his — "  Cream, 
sir, — yes,  sir.  Devilled  kidney,  sir?  Thank  you,  sir." 
(Parkins  had  been  second  man  with  Lord  Colchester, 
so  he  told  Breen  when  he  hired  him.)  Jack  had  about 
made  up  his  mind  to  order  him  out  when  a  peculiar 
tone  in  his  uncle's  "Good  morning"  made  the  boy 
scan  that  gentleman's  face  and  figure  the  closer. 

His  uncle  was  as  well  dressed  as  usual,  looking  as 
neat  and  as  smart  in  his  dark  cut-away  coat  with  the 
invariable  red  carnation  in  his  buttonhole,  but  the 
boy's  quick  eye  caught  the  marks  of  a  certain  wear 
and  tear  in  the  face  which  neither  his  bath  nor  his 
valet  had  been  able  to  obliterate.  The  thin  lips — 
thin  for  a  man  so  fat,  and  which  showed,  more  than 
any  other  feature,  something  of  the  desultory  firm- 
ness of  his  character — drooped  at  the  corners.  The 
eyes  were  half  their  size,  the  snap  all  out  of  them, 
the  whites  lost  under  the  swollen  lids.  His  greeting, 
moreover,  had  lost  its  customary  heartiness. 

"You  were  out  late,  I  hear,"  he  grumbled,  drop- 
ping into  his  chair.  "I  didn't  get  in  myself  until 
two  o'clock  and  feel  like  a  boiled  owl.  May  have 
caught  a  little  cold,  but  I  think  it  was  that  champagne 
of  Duckworth's;  always  gives  me  a  headache.  Don't 
put  any  sugar  and  cream  in  that  coffee,  Parkins — want 
it  straight." 

"Yes,  sir,"  replied  the  flunky,  moving  toward  the 
sideboard. 

"And  now,  Jack,  what  did  you  do?"  he  continued, 
picking  up  his  napkin.  "You  and  Garry  made  a 

46 


PETER 

night  of  it,  didn't  you?  Some  kind  of  an  artist's  bat, 
wasn't  it? " 

"No,  sir;  Mr.  Morris  gave  a  dinner  to  his  clerks, 
and- 

" Who's  Morris?" 

"Why,  the  great  architect." 

"Oh,  that  fellow!  Yes,  I  know  him,  that  is,  I  know 
who  he  is.  Say  the  rest.  Parkins!  didn't  I  tell  you  I 
didn't  want  any  sugar  or  cream." 

Parkins  hadn't  offered  any.  He  had  only  forgotten 
to  remove  them  from  the  tray. 

Jack  kept  straight  on;  these  differences  between  the 
master  and  Parkins  were  of  daily  occurrence. 

"And,  Uncle  Arthur,  I  met  the  most  wonderful 
gentleman  I  ever  saw;  he  looked  just  as  if  he  had  stepped 
out  of  an  old  frame,  and  yet  he  is  down  in  the  Street 
every  day  and— 

"What  firm?" 

"No  firm,  he  is " 

"Curbstone  man,  then?"  Here  Breen  lifted  the 
cup  to  his  lips  and  as  quickly  put  it  down. 

"Parkins!" 

"Yes,  sir,"  came  the  monotone. 

"Why  the  devil  can't  I  get  my  coffee  hot?" 

"Is  it  cold,  sir?" — slight  modulation,  but  still  life- 
less. 

" Is  it  cold?  Of  course  it's  cold!  Might  have  been 
standing  in  a  morgue.  Take  that  down  and  have 
some  fresh  coffee  sent  up.  Servants  running  over  each 
other  and  yet  I  can't  get  a —  Go  on,  Jack!  I  didn't 

47 


PETER 

mean  to  interrupt,  but  I'll  clean  the  whole  lot  of  'em 
out  of  here  if  I  don't  get  better  service." 

"No,  Uncle  Arthur,  he  isn't  a  banker — isn't  even  a 
broker;  he's  only  a  paying  teller  in  a  bank,"  continued 
Jack. 

The  older  man  turned  his  head  and  a  look  of  sur- 
prise swept  over  his  round,  fat  face. 

"Teller  in  a  bank?"  he  asked  in  an  altered  tone. 

"Yes,  the  most  charming,  the  most  courteous  old 
gentleman  I  have  ever  met;  I  haven't  seen  anybody 
like  him  since  I  left  home,  and,  just  think,  he  has 
promised  to  come  and  see  me  to-night." 

The  drooping  lips  straightened  and  a  shrewd,  search- 
ing glance  shot  from  Arthur  Breen's  eyes.  There  was 
a  brain  behind  this  sleepy  face — as  many  of  his  competi- 
tors knew.  It  was  not  always  in  working  order,  but 
when  it  was  the  man  became  another  personality. 

"Jack — "  The  voice  was  now  as  thin  as  the  drawn 
lips  permitted,  with  caution  in  every  tone,  "you  stop 
short  off.  You  mustn't  cotton  to  everybody  you  pick 
up  in  New  York — it  won't  do.  Get  you  into  trouble. 
Don't  bring  him  here;  your  aunt  won't  like  it.  When 
you  get  into  a  hole  with  a  fellow  and  can't  help  your- 
self, take  him  to  the  club.  That's  one  of  the  things 
I  got  you  into  the  Magnolia  for;  but  don't  ever  bring 
'em  here." 

"But  he's  a  personal  friend  of  Mr.  Morris,  and  a 
friend  of  another  friend  of  Mr.  Morris's  they  called 
"Major."  It  was  not  the  first  time  he  had  heard  such 
inhospitable  suggestions  from  his  uncle. 

48 


PETER 

"Oh,  yes,  I  know;  they've  all  got  some  old  retainers 
hanging  on  that  they  give  a  square  meal  to  once  a 
year,  but  don't  you  get  mixed  up  with  'em." 

Parkins  had  returned  by  this  time  and  was  pouring  a 
fresh  cup  of  coffee. 

"Now,  Parkins,  that's  something  like —  No,  I 
don't  want  any  kidneys — I  don't  want  any  toast — I  don't 
want  anything,  Parkins — haven't  I  told  you  so?" 

"Yes,  sir;    thank  you  sir." 

"Black  coffee  is  the  only  thing  that'll  settle  this 
head.  What  you  want  to  do,  Jack,  is  to  send  that  old 
fossil  word  that  you've  got  another  engagement,  and 
.  .  .  Parkins,  is  there  anything  going  on  here  to-night?" 

"Yes,  sir;   Miss  Corinne  is  giving  a  small  dance." 

"There,  Jack— that's  it.  That'll  let  you  out  with 
a  whole  skin." 

"No,  I  can't,  and  I  won't,  Uncle  Arthur,"  he  an- 
swered in  an  indignant  tone.  "If  you  knew  him  as  I 
do,  and  had  seen  him  last  night,  you  would ' 

"No,  I  don't  want  to  know  him  and  I  don't  want  to 
see  him.  You  are  all  balled  up,  I  see,  and  can't  work 
loose,  but  take  him  upstairs;  don't  let  your  aunt  come 
across  him  or  she'll  have  a  fit."  Here  he  glanced  at  the 
bronze  clock.  "What! — ten  minutes  past  nine!  Par- 
kins, see  if  my  cab  is  at  the  door.  .  .  .  Jack,  you  ride 
down  with  me.  I  walked  when  I  was  your  age,  and 
got  up  at  daylight.  Some  difference,  Jack,  isn't  there, 
whether  you've  got  a  rich  uncle  to  look  after  you  or 
not."  This  last  came  with  a  wink. 

It  was  only  one  of  his  pleasantries.  He  knew  he  was 
49 


PETER 

not  rich;  not  in  the  accepted  sense.  He  might  be  a 
small  star  in  the  myriads  forming  the  Milky- Way  of 
Finance,  but  there  were  planets  millions  of  miles 
beyond  him,  whose  brilliancy  he  was  sure  he  could 
never  equal.  The  fact  was  that  the  money  which  he 
had  accumulated  had  been  so  much  greater  sum  than 
he  had  ever  hoped  for  when  he  was  a  boy  in  a  Western 
State — his  father  went  to  Iowa  in  '49 — and  the  changes 
in  his  finances  had  come  with  such  lightning  rapidity 
(half  a  million  made  on  a  tip  given  him  by  a  friend, 
followed  by  other  tips  more  or  less  profitable)  that  he 
loved  to  pat  his  pride,  so  to  speak,  in  speeches  like 
this. 

That  he  had  been  swept  off  his  feet  by  the  social  and 
financial  rush  about  him  was  quite  natural.  His  wife, 
whose  early  life  had  been  one  long  economy,  had 
ambitions  to  which  there  was  no  limit  and  her  escape 
from  her  former  thraldom  had  been  as  sudden  and  as 
swift  as  the  upward  spring  of  a  loosened  balloon. 
Then  again  all  the  money  needed  to  make  the  ascension 
successful  was  at  her  disposal.  Hence  jewels,  laces, 
and  clothes;  hence  elaborate  dinners,  the  talk  of  the 
town;  hence  teas,  receptions,  opera  parties,  week-end 
parties  at  their  hired  country  seat  on  Long  Island; 
dances  for  Corinne;  dinners  for  Corinne;  birthday 
parties  for  Corinne;  everything,  in  fact,  for  Corinne, 
from  manicures  to  pug  dogs  and  hunters. 

His  two  redeeming  qualities  were  his  affection  for 
his  wife  and  his  respect  for  his  word.  He  had 
no  child  of  his  own,  and  Corinne,  though  respectful 

50 


PETER 

never  showed  him  any  affection.  He  had  sent  Jack  to 
a  Southern  school  and  college,  managing  meanwhile  the 
little  property  his  father  had  left  him,  which,  with 
some  wild  lands  in  the  Cumberland  Mountains,  prac- 
tically worthless,  was  the  boy's  whole  inheritance,  and 
of  late  had  treated  him  as  if  he  had  been  his  own  son. 

As  to  his  own  affairs,  close  as  he  sailed  to  the  wind 
in  his  money  transactions — so  close  sometimes  that  the 
Exchange  had  more  than  once  overhauled  his  deal- 
ings— it  was  generally  admitted  that  when  Arthur 
Breen  gave  his  word — a  difficult  thing  often  to  get — he 
never  broke  it.  This  was  offset  by  another  peculiarity 
with  less  beneficial  results:  When  he  had  once  done 
a  man  a  service  only  to  find  him  ungrateful,  no  amount 
of  apologies  or  atonement  thereafter  ever  moved  him 
to  forgiveness.  Narrow-gauge  men  are  sometimes  built 
that  way. 

It  was  to  be  expected,  therefore,  considering  the 
quality  of  Duckworth's  champagne  and  the  impression 
made  on  Jack  by  his  uncle's  outburst,  that  the  ride 
down  town  in  the  cab  was  marked  by  anything  but 
cheerful  conversation  between  Breen  and  his  nephew, 
each  of  whom  sat  absorbed  in  his  own  reflections.  "  I 
didn't  mean  to  be  hard  on  the  boy,"  ruminated  Breen, 
"but  if  I  had  picked  up  everybody  who  wanted  to 
know  me,  as  Jack  has  done,  where  would  I  be  now?" 
Then,  his  mind  still  clouded  by  the  night  at  the  club 
(he  had  not  confined  himself  entirely  to  champagne), 
he  began,  as  was  his  custom,  to  concentrate  his  atten- 
tion upon  the  work  of  the  day — on  the  way  the  market 

51 


PETER 

would  open;  on  the  remittance  a  belated  customer  had 
promised  and  about  which  he  had  some  doubt;  the 
meeting  of  the  board  of  directors  in  the  new  mining 
company — "The  Great  Mukton  Lode,"  in  which  he 
had  an  interest,  and  a  large  one — etc. 

Jack  looked  out  of  the  windows,  his  eyes  taking  in 
the  remnants  of  the  autumnal  tints  in  the  Park,  now 
nearly  gone,  the  crowd  filling  the  sidewalks;  the 
lumbering  stages  and  the  swifter-moving  horse-cars 
crammed  with  eager  men  anxious  to  begin  the  struggle 
of  the  day — not  with  their  hands — that  mob  had  swept 
past  hours  before — but  with  their  brains — wits  against 
wits  and  the  devil  take  the  man  who  slips  and  falls. 

Nothing  of  it  all  interested  him.  His  mind  was  on 
the  talk  at  the  breakfast  table,  especially  his  uncle's 
ideas  of  hospitality,  all  of  which  had  appalled  and  dis- 
gusted him.  With  his  father  there  had  always  been  a 
welcome  for  every  one,  no  matter  what  the  position 
in  life,  the  only  standard  being  one  of  breeding  and 
character — and  certainly  Peter  had  both.  His  uncle 
had  helped  him,  of  course — put  him  under  obligations 
he  could  never  repay.  Yet  after  all,  it  was  proved  now 
to  him  that  he  was  but  a  guest  in  the  house  enjoying 
only  such  rights  as  any  other  guest  might  possess,  and 
with  no  voice  in  the  welcome — a  condition  which  would 
never  be  altered,  until  he  became  independent  him- 
self— a  possibility  which  at  the  moment  was  too  remote 
io  be  considered.  Then  his  mind  reverted  to  his 
•conversation  the  night  before  with  Mr.  Grayson  and 
with  this  change  of  thought  his  father's  portrait — 

52 


PETER 

the  one  that  hung  in  his  room — loomed  up.  Her 
had  the  night  before  turned  on  the  lights — to  their 
fullest — and  had  scanned  the  picture  closely,  eager 
to  find  some  trace  of  Peter  in  the  counterfeit  present- 
ment of  the  man  he  loved  best,  and  whose  memory 
was  still  almost  a  religion,  but  except  that  both  Peter 
and  his  father  we  e  bald,  and  that  both  wore  high, 
old-fashioned  collars  and  neck-cloths,  he  had  been 
compelled  to  admit  with  a  sigh  that  there  was  nothing 
about  the  portrait  on  which  to  base  the  slightest  claim 
to  resemblance. 

"  Yet  he's  like  my  father,  he  is,  he  is,"  he  kept  repeat- 
ing to  himself  as  the  cab  sped  on.  "I'll  find  out 
what  it  is  when  I  know  him  better.  To-night  when 
Mr.  Grayson  comes  I'll  study  it  out,"  and  a  joyous 
smile  flashed  across  his  features  as  he  thought  of  the 
treat  in  store  for  him. 

When  at  last  the  boy  reached  his  office,  where,  behind 
the  mahogany  partition  with  its  pigeon-hole  cut  through 
the  glass  front  he  sat  every  day,  he  swung  back  the 
doors  of  the  safe,  took  out  his  books  and  papers  and 
made  ready  for  work.  He  had  charge  of  the  check 
book,  and  he  alone  signed  the  firm's  name  outside  of 
the  partners.  "Rather  young,"  one  of  them  protested, 
until  he  looked  into  the  boy's  face,  then  he  gave  his 
consent;  something  better  than  years  of  experience 
and  discretion  are  wanted  where  a  scratch  of  a  pen 
might  mean  financial  ruin. 

Breen  had  preceded  him  with  but  a  nod  to  his 
clerks,  and  had  disappeared  into  his  private  office — 

53 


PETER 

another  erection  of  ground  glass  and  mahogany.  Here 
the  senior  member  of  the  firm  shut  the  door  carefully, 
and  turning  his  back  fished  up  a  tiny  key  attached  to  a 
chain  leading  to  the  rear  pocket  of  his  trousers.  With 
this  he  opened  a  small  closet  near  his  desk — a  mere 
box  of  a  closet — took  from  it  a  squatty-shaped  decanter 
labelled  "Rye,  1840,"  poured  out  half  a  glass,  emptied 
it  into  his  person  with  one  gulp,  and  with  the  remark 
in  a  low  voice  to  himself  that  he  was  now  "copper 
fastened  inside  and  out" — removed  all  traces  of  the 
incident  and  took  up  his  morning's  mail. 

By  this  time  the  circle  of  chairs  facing  the  huge  black- 
board in  the  spacious  outer  office  had  begun  to  fill  up. 
Some  of  the  customers,  before  taking  their  seats,  hurried 
anxiously  to  the  ticker,  chattering  away  in  its  glass  case; 
others  turned  abruptly  and  left  the  room  without  a 
word.  Now  and  then  a  customer  would  dive  into 
Breen's  private  room,  remain  a  moment  and  burst  out 
again,  his  face  an  index  of  the  condition  of  his  bank 
account. 

When  the  chatter  of  the  ticker  had  shifted  from  the 
London  quotations  to  the  opening  sales  on  the  Ex- 
change, a  sallow-faced  clerk  mounted  a  low  step-ladder 
and  swept  a  scurry  of  chalk  marks  over  the  huge  black- 
board, its  margin  lettered  with  the  initials  of  the 
principal  stocks.  The  appearance  of  this  nimble- 
fingered  young  man  with  his  piece  of  chalk  always 
impressed  Jack  as  a  sort  of  vaudeville  performance. 
On  ordinary  days,  with  the  market  lifeless,  but  half  of 
the  orchestra  seats  would  be  occupied.  In  whirl-times, 

54 


PETER 

with  the  ticker  spelling  ruin,  not  only  were  the  chairs 
full,  but  standing  room  only  was  available  in  the  offices. 

Their  occupants  came  from  all  classes;  clerks  from 
up-town  dry-goods  houses,  who  had  run  down  during 
lunch  time  to  see  whether  U.  P.  or  Erie,  or  St.  Paul 
had  moved  up  an  eighth,  or  down  a  quarter,  since  they 
had  devoured  the  morning  papers  on  their  way  to  town; 
old  speculators  who  had  spent  their  lives  waiting  buz- 
zard-like for  some  calamity,  enabling  them  to  swoop 
down  and  make  off  with  what  fragments  they  could  pick 
up;  well-dressed,  well-fed  club  men,  who  had  had  a  run 
of  luck  and  who  never  carried  less  than  a  thousand 
shares  to  keep  their  hands  in;  gray-haired  novices 
nervously  rolling  little  wads  of  paper  between  their 
fingers  and  thumbs — up  every  few  minutes  to  listen  to 
the  talk  of  the  ticker,  too  anxious  to  wait  until  the  sallow- 
faced  young  man  with  the  piece  of  chalk  could  make 
his  record  on  the  board.  Some  of  them  had  gathered 
together  their  last  dollar.  Two  per  cent,  or  one  per 
cent.,  or  even  one-half  of  one  per  cent,  rise  or  fall  was 
all  that  stood  between  them  and  ruin. 

"Very  sorry,  sir,  but  you  know  we  told  you  when 
you  opened  the  account  that  you  must  keep  your 
margins  up,"  Breen  had  said  to  an  old  man.  The 
old  man  knew;  had  known  it  all  night  as  he  lay  awake, 
afraid  to  tell  his  wife  of  the  sword  hanging  above  their 
heads.  Knew  it,  too,  when  without  her  knowledge  he 
had  taken  the  last  dollar  of  the  little  nest-egg  to  make 
good  the  deficit  owed  Breen  &  Co.  over  and  above  his 
margins,  together  with  some  other  things  "  not  negotia- 

55 


PETER 

ble"— not  our  kind  of  collateral  but  "stuff"  that 
could  "  lie  in  the  safe  until  he  could  make  some  other 
arrangement,"  the  cashier  had  said  with  the  firm's 
consent. 

Queer  safe,  that  of  Breen  &  Co.,  and  queer  things 
went  into  it.  Most  of  them  were  still  there.  Jack 
thought  some  jeweller  had  sent  part  of  his  stock  down 
for  safe-keeping  when  he  first  came  across  a  tiny  drawer 
of  which  Breen  alone  kept  the  key.  Each  object 
could  tell  a  story:  a  pair  of  diamond  ear-rings  surely 
could,  and  so  could  four  pearls  on  a  gold  chain,  and 
perhaps,  too,  a  certain  small  watch,  the  case  set  with 
jewels.  One  of  these  days  they  may  be  redeemed, 
or  they  may  not,  depending  upon  whether  the  owners 
can  scrape  money  enough  together  to  pay  the  balances 
owed  in  cash.  But  the  four  pearls  on  the  gold  chain 
are  likely  to  remain  there — that  poor  fellow  went  over- 
board one  morning  off  Nantucket  Light,  and  his  secret 
went  with  him. 

During  the  six  months  Jack  had  stood  at  his  desk 
new  faces  had  filled  the  chairs — the  talk  had  varied; 
though  he  felt  only  the  weary  monotony  of  it  all. 
Sometimes  there  had  been  hours  of  tense  excitement, 
when  even  his  uncle  had  stood  by  the  ticker,  and  when 
every  bankable  security  in  the  box  had  been  overhauled 
and  sent  post-haste  to  the  bank  or  trust  company.  Jack, 
followed  by  the  porter  with  a  self-cocking  revolver  in 
his  outside  pocket,  had  more  than  once  carried  the 
securities  himself,  returning  to  the  office  on  the  run 
with  a  small  scrap  of  paper  good  for  half  a  million 

56 


PETER 

or  so  tucked  away  in  his  inside  pocket.  Then 
the  old  monotony  had  returned  with  its  dull  routine, 
and  so  had  the  chatter  and  talk.  "  Buy  me  a  hundred." 
"Yes,  let  'em  go."  "No,  I  don't  want  to  risk  it." 
"What's  my  balance?"  "Thought  you'd  get  another 
eighth  for  that  stock."  "Sold  at  that  figure,  anyhow,"  etc. 
Under  these  conditions  life  to  a  boy  of  Jack's  pro- 
vincial training  and  temperament  seemed  narrowed 
down  to  an  arm-chair,  a  black-board,  a  piece  of  chalk 
and  a  restless  little  devil  sputtering  away  in  a  glass 
case,  whose  fiat  meant  happiness  or  misery.  Only 
the  tongue  of  the  demon  was  in  evidence.  The  brain 
behind  it,  with  its  thousand  slender  nerves  quiv- 
ering with  the  energy  of  the  globe,  Jack  never  saw, 
nor,  for  that  matter,  did  nine-tenths  of  the  occupants 
of  the  chairs.  To  them  its  spoken  word  was  the 
dictum  of  fate.  Success  meant  debts  paid,  a  balance 
in  the  bank,  houses,  horses,  even  yachts  and  estates — 
failure  meant  obscurity  and  suffering.  The  turn  of 
the  roulette  wheel  or  the  roll  of  a  cube  of  ivory  they 
well  knew  brought  the  same  results,  but  these  turnings 
they  also  knew  were  attended  with  a  certain  loss  of 
prestige.  Taking  a  flier  in  the  Street  was  altogether 
different — great  financiers  were  behind  the  fluctuations 
of  values  told  by  the  tongue  of  the  ticker,  and  behind 
them  was  the  wealth  of  the  Republic  and  still  in 
the  far  distance  the  power  of  the  American  people. 
Few  of  them  ever  looked  below  the  grease  paint,  nor 
did  the  most  discerning  ever  detect  the  laugh  on  the 
clown's  face. 

57 


PETER 

The  boy  half  hidden  by  the  glass  screen,  through 
which  millions  were  passed  and  repassed  every  month, 
caught  now  and  then  a  glimpse. 

Once  a  faded,  white-haired  old  man  had  handed 
Jack  a  check  after  banking  hours  to  make  good  an 
account — a  man  whose  face  had  haunted  him  for  hours. 
His  uncle  told  him  the  poor  fellow  had  "run  up  solid" 
against  a  short  interest  in  a  stock  that  some  Croesus 
was  manipulating  to  get  even  with  another  Croesus 
who  had  manipulated  him,  and  that  the  two  Croesuses 
had  "buried  the  old  man  alive."  The  name  of  the 
stock  Jack  had  forgotten,  but  the  suffering  in  the 
victim's  face  had  made  an  indelible  impression.  In 
reply  to  Jack's  further  inquiry,  his  uncle  had  spoken 
as  if  the  poor  fellow  had  been  wandering  about  on  some 
unknown  highway  when  the  accident  happened,  fail- 
ing to  add  that  he  himself  had  led  him  through  the  gate 
and  started  him  on  the  road;  forgetting,  too,  to  say 
that  he  had  collected  the  toll  in  margins,  a  sum  which 
still  formed  a  considerable  portion  of  Breen  &  Co.'s 
bank  account.  One  bit  of  information  which  Breen 
had  vouchsafed,  while  it  did  not  relieve  the  gloom 
of  the  incident,  added  a  note  of  courage  to  the  affair: 

"He  was  game,  however,  all  the  same,  Jack.  Had 
to  go  down  into  his  wife's  stocking,  I  hear.  Hard  hit, 
but  he  took  it  like  a  man." 


58 


CHAPTER  V. 

While  all  this  was  going  on  downtown  under  the 
direction  of  the  business  end  of  the  house  of  Breen, 
equally  interesting  events  were  taking  place  uptown 
under  the  guidance  of  its  social  head.  Strict  orders  had 
been  given  by  Mrs.  Breen  the  night  before  that  cer- 
tain dustings  and  arrangings  of  furniture  should  take 
place,  the  spacious  stairs  swept,  and  the  hectic 
hired  palms  in  their  great  china  pots  watered.  I  say 
"the  night  before,"  because  especial  stress  was  laid 
upon  the  fact  that  on  no  account  whatever  were  either 
Mrs.  Breen  or  her  daughter  Corinne  to  be  disturbed 
until  noon — neither  of  them  having  retired  until  a 
late  hour  the  night  before. 

So  strictly  were  these  orders  carried  out  that  all 
that  did  reach  the  younger  woman's  ear — and  this 
was  not  until  long  after  mid-day — was  a  scrap  of 
news  which  crept  upstairs  from  the  breakfast  table  via 
Parkins  wireless,  was  caught  by  Corinne's  maid  and 
delivered  in  manifold  with  that  young  lady's  coffee  and 
buttered  rolls.  This  when  deciphered  meant  that  Jack 
was  not  to  be  at  the  dance  that  evening — he  having 
determined  instead  to  spend  his  time  up  stairs  with  a 
disreputable  old  fellow  whom  he  had  picked  up  some- 
where at  a  supper  the  preceding  night. 

59 


PETER 

Corinne  thought  over  the  announcement  for  a  mo- 
ment, gazed  into  the  egg-shell  cup  that  Hortense  was 
filling  from  the  tiny  silver  coffee-pot,  and  a  troubled 
expression  crossed  her  face.  "What  has  come  over 
Jack?"  she  asked  herself.  "I  never  knew  him  to  do 
anything  like  this  before.  Is  he  angry,  I  wonder,  be- 
cause I  danced  with  Garry  the  other  night?  It  was 
his  dance,  but  I  didn't  think  he  would  care.  He 
has  always  done  everything  to  please  me — until  now." 
Perhaps  the  boy  was  about  to  slip  the  slight  collar  he 
had  worn  in  her  service — one  buckled  on  by  him 
willingly  because — though  she  had  not  known  it — 
he  was  a  guest  in  the  house.  Heretofore  she  said  to 
herself  Jack  had  been  her  willing  slave,  a  feather  in  her 
cap — going  everywhere  with  her;  half  the  girls  were 
convinced  he  was  in  love  with  her — a  theory  which  she 
had  encouraged.  What  would  they  say  now?  This 
prospect  so  disturbed  the  young  woman  that  she  again 
touched  the  button,  and  again  Hortense  glided  in. 

"Hortense,  tell  Parkins  to  let  me  know  the  moment 
Mr.  John  comes  in — and  get  me  my  blue  tea-gown; 
I  sha'n't  go  out  to-day."  This  done  she  sank  back  on 
her  pillows. 

She  was  a  slight  little  body,  this  Corinne — blue-eyed, 
fair-haired,  with  a  saucy  face  and  upturned  nose. 
Jack  thought  when  he  first  saw  her  that  she  looked  like 
a  wren  with  its  tiny  bill  in  the  air — and  Jack  was  not 
far  out  of  the  way.  And  yet  she  was  a  very  methodical, 
level-headed  little  wren,  with  several  positive  convic- 
tions which  dominated  her  life — one  of  them  being  that 

60 


PETER 

everybody  about  her  ought  to  do,  not  as  they,  but  as 
she,  pleased.  She  had  begun,  and  with  pronounced 
success,  on  her  mother  as  far  back  as  she  could  remem- 
ber, and  had  then  tried  her  hand  on  her  stepfather 
until  it  became  evident  that  as  her  mother  controlled 
that  gentleman  it  was  a  waste  of  time  to  experiment 
further.  All  of  which  was  a  saving  of  stones  without 
the  loss  of  any  birds. 

Where  she  failed — and  she  certainly  had  failed,  was 
with  Jack,  who  though  punctiliously  polite  was  elusive 
and — never  quite  subdued .  Yet  the  discovery  made,  she 
neither  pouted  nor  lost  her  temper,  but  merely  bided 
her  time.  Sooner  or  later,  she  knew,  of  course,  this 
boy,  who  had  seen  nothing  of  city  life  and  who  was 
evidently  dazed  with  all  the  magificence  of  the  stately 
home  overlooking  the  Park,  would  find  his  happiest 
resting-place  beneath  the  soft  plumage  of  her  little 
wing.  And  if  by  any  chance  he  should  fall  in  love 
with  her — and  what  more  natural;  did  not  everybody 
fall  in  love  with  her  ? — would  it  not  be  wiser  to  let  him 
think  she  returned  it,  especially  if  she  saw  any  disposi- 
tion on  the  young  man's  part  to  thwart  her  undisputed 
sway  of  the  household  ? 

For  months  she  had  played  her  little  game,  yet 
to  her  amazement  none  of  the  things  she  had  antici- 
pated had  happened.  Jack  had  treated  her  as  he  would 
any  other  young  woman  of  his  acquaintance — always 
with  courtesy — always  doing  everything  to  oblige  her, 
but  never  yielding  to  her  sway.  He  would  laugh  some- 
times at  her  pretensions,  just  as  he  would  have  laughed 

61 


PETER 

at  similar  self-assertiveness  on  the  part  of  any  one  else 
with  whom  he  must  necessarily  be  thrown,  but  never  by 
thought,  word  or  deed  had  he  ever  given  my  Lady 
Wren  the  faintest  suspicion  that  he  considered  her 
more  beautiful,  better  dressed,  or  more  entertaining, 
either  in  song,  chirp,  flight  or  plumage,  than  the  flock 
of  other  birds  about  her.  Indeed,  the  Scribe  knows 
it  to  be  a  fact  that  if  Jack's  innate  politeness  had  not 
forbidden,  he  would  many  times  have  told  her  truths, 
some  of  them  mighty  unpleasant  ones,  to  which 
her  ears  had  been  strangers  since  her  school-girl 
days. 

This  unstudied  treatment,  strange  to  say — the  re- 
sult really,  of  the  boy's  indifference — had  of  late  ab- 
sorbed her.  What  she  could  not  have  she  generally 
longed  for,  and  there  was  not  the  slightest  question 
up  to  the  present  moment  that  Jack  was  still  afield. 

Again  the  girl  pressed  the  button  of  the  cord  within 
reach  of  her  hand,  and  for  the  third  time  Hortense 
entered. 

"Have  you  told  Parkins  I  want  to  know  the  very 
instant  Mr.  John  comes  in  ? " 

"Yes,  miss." 

"And,  Hortense,  did  you  understand  that  Mr.  John 
was  to  go  out  to  meet  the  gentleman,  or  was  the  gentle- 
man to  come  to  his  rooms?" 

"To  his  rooms,  I  think,  miss." 

She  was  wearing  her  blue  tea-gown,  stretched  out  on 
the  cushions  of  one  of  the  big  divans  in  the  silent  draw- 

62 


PETER 

ing-room,  when  she  heard  Jack's  night-key  touch  the 
lock.  Springing  to  her  feet  she  ran  toward  him. 

"Why,  Jack,  what's  this  I  hear  about  your  not 
coming  to  my  dance?  It  isn't  true,  is  it?"  She  was 
close  to  him  now,  her  little  head  cocked  on  one  side, 
her  thin,  silken  draperies  dripping  about  her  slender 
figure. 

"Who  told  you?" 

"Parkins  told  Hortense." 

"Leaky  Parkins?"  laughed  Jack,  tossing  his  hat 
on  the  hall  table. 

"But  you  are  coming,  aren't  you,  Jack?  Please 
do!" 

"Not  to-night;  you  don't  need  me,  Corinne."  His 
voice  told  her  at  once  that  not  only  was  the  leash  gone 
but  that  the  collar  was  off  as  well. 

"Yes,  but  I  do." 

"Then  please  excuse  me,  for  I  have  an  old  gentleman 
coming  to  pay  me  a  visit.  The  finest  old  gentleman, 
by  the  way,  you  ever  saw!  A  regular  thoroughbred, 
Corinne — who  looks  like  a  magnificent  portrait  I"  he 
added  in  his  effort  to  interest  her. 

"But  let  him  come  some  other  time,"  she  coaxed, 
holding  the  lapel  of  his  coat,  her  eyes  searching  his. 

"What,  turn  to  the  wall  a  magnificent  old  portrait!" 
This  came  with  a  mock  grimace,  his  body  bent  forward, 
his  eyes  brimming  with  laughter. 

"Be  serious,  Jack,  and  tell  me  if  you  think  it  very 
nice  in  you  to  stay  upstairs  in  your  den  when  I  am 
giving  a  dance?  Everybody  will  know  you  are  at 

63 


PETER 

home,  and  we  haven't  enough  men  as  it  is.  Garry 
can't  come,  he  writes  me.  He  has  to  dine  with  some 
men  at  the  club." 

"I  really  am  sorry,  Corinne,  but  I  can't  this  time." 
Jack  had  hold  of  her  hand  now;  for  a  brief  moment  he 
was  sorry  he  had  not  postponed  Peter's  visit  until  the 
next  day;  he  hated  to  cause  any  woman  a  disappoint- 
ment. "If  it  was  anybody  else  I  might  send  him 
word  to  call  another  night,  but  you  don't  know  Mr. 
Grayson;  he  isn't  the  kind  of  a  man  you  can  treat  like 
that.  He  does  me  a  great  honor  to  come,  anyhow. 

Just  think  of  his  coming  to  see  a  boy  like  me — and  he 
^^ jj 

"Well,  bring  him  downstairs,  then."  Her  eyes  be- 
gan to  flash;  she  had  tried  all  the  arts  she  knew — 
they  were  not  many — but  they  had  won  heretofore. 
"Mother  will  take  care  of  him.  A  good  many  of  the 
girls'  fathers  come  for  them." 

"Bring  him  downstairs  to  a  dance!"  Jack  answered 
with  a  merry  laugh.  "He  isn't  that  kind  of  an  old 
gentleman,  either.  Why,  Corinne,  you  ought  to  see 
him!  You  might  as  well  ask  old  Bishop  Gooley  to 
lead  the  german." 

Jack's  foot  was  now  ready  to  mount  the  lower  step 
of  the  stairs.  Corinne  bit  her  lip. 

"You  never  do  anything  to  please  me!"  she  snapped 
back.  She  knew  she  was  fibbing,  but  something  must 
be  done  to  check  this  new  form  of  independence — and 
then,  now  that  Garry  couldn't  come,  she  really  needed 
him.  "You  don't  want  to  come,  that's  it — "  She  was 

64 


PETER 

facing  him  now,  her  little  nose  high  in  the  air,  her 
cheeks  flaming  with  anger 

"You  must  not  say  that,  Corinne,"  he  answered  in 
a  slightly  indignant  tone. 

Corinne  drew  herself  up  to  her  full  height — toes  in- 
cluded; not  very  high,  but  all  she  could  do — and  said 
in  a  voice  pitched  to  a  high  key,  her  ringer  within  a 
few  inches  of  his  nose: 

"It's  true,  and  I  will  say  it!" 

The  rustle  of  silk  was  heard  overhead,  and  a  plump, 
tightly  laced  woman  in  voluminous  furs,  her  head 
crowned  by  a  picture  hat  piled  high  with  plumes,  was 
making  her  way  down  the  stairs.  Jack  looked  up 
and  waved  his  hand  to  his  aunt,  and  then  stood  at 
mock  attention,  like  a  corporal  on  guard,  one  hand 
raised  to  salute  her  as  she  passed.  The  boy,  with  the 
thought  of  Peter  coming,  was  very  happy  this  after- 
noon. 

"What  are  you  two  quarrelling  about?"  came  the 
voice.  Rather  a  soft  voice  with  a  thread  of  laziness 
running  through  it. 

"Jack's  too  mean  for  anything,  mother.  He  knows 
we  haven't  men  enough  without  him  for  a  cotillion,  now 
that  Garry  has  dropped  out,  and  he's  been  just  stupid 
enough  to  invite  some  old  man  to  come  and  see  him 
this  evening." 

The  furs  and  picture  hat  swept  down  and  on,  Jack 
standing  at  attention,  hands  clasping  an  imaginary 
musket  his  face  drawn  down  to  its  severest  lines,  his 
cheeks  puffed  out  to  make  him  look  the  more  solemn. 

65 


PETER 

When  the  wren  got  "real  mad"  he  would  often  say 
she  was  the  funniest  thing  alive. 

"I'm  a  pig,  I  know,  aunty"  (here  Jack  completed 
his  salute  with  a  great  flourish),  "  but  Corinne  does  not 
really  want  me,  and  she  knows  it.  She  only  wants  to 
have  her  own  way.  They  don't  dance  cotillions  when 
they  come  here — at  least  they  didn't  last  time,  and  I 
don't  believe  they  will  to-night.  They  sit  around  with 
each  other  in  the  corners  and  waltz  with  the  fellows 
they've  picked  out — and  it's  all  arranged  between 
them,  and  has  been  for  a  week — ever  since  they  heard 
Corinne  was  going  to  give  a  dance."  The  boy  spoke 
with  earnestness  and  a  certain  tone  of  conviction  in  his 
voice,  although  his  face  was  still  radiant. 

"Well,  can't  you  sit  around,  too,  Jack?"  remarked 
his  aunt,  pausing  in  her  onward  movement  for  an  in- 
stant. "I'm  sure  there  will  be  some  lovely  girls." 

"Yes,  but  they  don't  want  me.  I've  tried  it  too 
often,  aunty — they've  all  got  their  own  set." 

"It's  because  you  don't  want  to  be  polite  to  any  of 
them,"  snapped  Corinne  with  a  twist  of  her  body,  so 
as  to  face  him  again. 

"Now,  Corinne,  that  isn't  fair;  I  am  never  impolite 
to  anybody  in  this  house,  but  I'm  tired  of — : — " 

"Well,  Garry  isn't  tired."  This  last  shot  was  fired 
at  random. 

Again  the  aunt  poured  oil:  "Come,  children,  come! 
Don't  let's  talk  any  more  about  it.  If  Jack  has  made 
an  engagement  it  can't  be  helped,  I  suppose,  but  don't 
spoil  your  party,  my  dear.  Find  Parkins,  Jack,  and 

66 


PETER 

send  him  to  me.  ...  Ah,  Parkins — if  any  one  calls 
say  Fll  be  out  until  six  o'clock." 

"Yes,  my  Lady."  Parkins  knew  on  which  side 
his  bread  was  buttered.  She  had  reproved  him  at 
first,  but  his  excuse  was  that  she  was  so  like  his  former 
mistress,  Lady  Colchester,  that  he  sometimes  forgot 
himself. 

And  again  "my  Lady"  swept  on,  this  time  out  of 
the  door  and  into  her  waiting  carriage. 


67 


CHAPTER  VI 

Jack's  impatience  increased  as  the  hour  for  Peter's 
visit  approached.  Quarter  of  nine  found  him  lean- 
ing over  the  banisters  outside  his  small  suite  of  rooms, 
peering  down  between  the  hand-rails  watching  the  top 
of  every  head  that  crossed  the  spacious  hall  three 
flights  below — he  dare  not  go  down  to  welcome  his 
guest,  fearing  some  of  the  girls,  many  of  whom  had 
already  arrived,  would  know  he  was  in  the  house. 
Fifteen  minutes  later  the  flash  of  a  bald  head,  glistening 
in  the  glare  of  the  lower  hall  lantern,  told  him  that  the 
finest  old  gentleman  in  the  world  had  arrived,  and  on 
the  very  minute.  Parkins's  special  instructions,  repeated 
for  the  third  time,  were  to  bring  Mr.  Peter  Grayson — it 
was  wonderful  what  an  impressive  note  was  in  the  boy's 
voice  when  he  rolled  out  the  syllables — up  at  once, 
surtout,  straight-brimmed  hat,  overshoes  (if  he  wore 
any),  umbrella  and  all,  and  the  four  foot-falls — two 
cat-like  and  wabbly,  as  befitted  the  obsequious  flunky, 
and  two  firm  and  decided,  as  befitted  a  grenadier  cross- 
ing a  bridge — could  now  be  heard  mounting  the  stairs. 

"So  here  you  are!"  cried  Peter,  holding  out  both 
hands  to  the  overjoyed  boy — "'way  up  near  the  sky. 
One  flight  less  than  my  own.  Let  me  get  my  breath. 

68 


PETER 

my  boy,  before  I  say  another  word.  No,  don't  worry, 
only  Anno  Domini — you'll  come  to  it  some  day.  How 
delightfully  you  are  settled!" 

They  had  entered  the  cosey  sitting-room  and  Jack 
was  helping  with  his  coat;  Parkins,  with  his  nose 
in  the  air  (he  had  heard  his  master's  criticism),  having 
already  placed  his  hat  on  a  side  table  and  the  umbrella 
in  the  corner. 

"Where  will  you  sit — in  the  big  chair  by  the  fire  or 
in  this  long  straw  one  ? "  cried  the  boy,  Peter's  coat  still 
in  his  hand. 

"Nowhere  yet;  let  me  look  around  a  little." 
One  of  Peter's  tests  of  a  man  was  the  things  he  lived 
with.  "Ah!  books?"  and  he  peered  at  a  row  on  the 
mantel.  "Macaulay,  I  see,  and  here's  Poe:  Good, 
very  good — why,  certainly  it  is —  Where  did  you  get 
this  Morland?"  and  again  Peter's  glasses  went  up. 
"Through  that  door  is  your  bedroom — yes,  and  the 
bath.  Very  charming,  I  must  say.  You  ought  to 
live  very  happily  here;  few  young  fellows  I  know  have 
half  your  comforts."" 

Jack  had  interrupted  him  to  say  that  the  Morland 
print  was  one  that  he  had  brought  from  his  father's 
home,  and  that  the  books  had  come  from  the  same 
source,  but  Peter  kept  on  in  his  tour  around  the  room. 
Suddenly  he  stopped  and  looked  steadily  at  a  portrait 
over  the  mantel. 

"Yes— your  father " 

"You  knew!"  cried  Jack. 

"Knew!  How  could  any  one  make  a  mistake? 
69 


PETER 

Fine  head.  About  fifty  I  should  say.  No  question 
about  his  firmness  or  his  kindness.  Yes — fine  head 
— and  a  gentleman,  that  is  best  of  all.  When  you 
come  to  marry  always  hunt  up  the  grandfather — saves 
such  a  lot  of  trouble  in  after  life,"  and  one  of  Peter's 
infectious  laughs  filled  the  room. 

"Do  you  think  he  looks  anything  like  Uncle  Arthur? 
You  have  seen  him,  I  think  you  said." 

Peter  scanned  the  portrait.  "Not  a  trace.  That 
may  also  be  a  question  of  grandfathers — "  and  another 
laugh  rippled  out.  "But  just  be  thankful  you  bear 
his  name.  It  isn't  always  necessary  to  have  a  long 
line  of  gentlemen  behind  you,  and  if  you  haven't 
any,  or  can't  trace  them,  a  man,  if  he  has  pluck  and 
grit,  can  get  along  without  them;  but  it's  very  comfort- 
ing to  know  they  once  existed.  Now  let  me  sit  down 
and  listen  to  you,"  added  Peter,  whose  random  talk 
had  been  inspired  by  the  look  of  boyish  embarrassment 
on  Jack's  face.  He  had  purposely  struck  many  notes 
in  order  to  see  which  one  would  echo  in  the  lad's  heart, 
so  that  his  host  might  find  himself,  just  as  he  had 
done  when  Jack  with  generous  impulse  had  sprang  from 
his  chair  to  carry  Minott  the  ring. 

The  two  seated  themselves — Peter  in  the  easy  chair 
and  Jack  opposite.  The  boy's  eyes  roamed  from  the 
portrait,  with  its  round,  grave  face,  to  Peter's  head 
resting  on  the  cushioned  back,  illumined  by  the  light 
of  the  lamp,  throwing  into  relief  the  clear-cut  lips,  little 
gray  side-whiskers  and  the  tightly  drawn  skin  covering 
his  scalp,  smooth  as  polished  ivory. 

70 


PETER 

"Am  I  like  him?"  asked  Peter.  He  had  caught  the 
boy's  glances  and  had  read  his  thoughts. 

"No — and  yes.  I  can't  see  it  in  the  portrait,  but  I 
do  in  the  way  you  move  your  hands  and  in  the  way 
you  bow.  I  keep  thinking  of  him  when  I'am  with  you. 
It  may,  as  you  say,  be  a  good  thing  to  have  a  gentleman 
for  a  father,  sir,  but  it  is  a  dreadful  thing,  all  the  same, 
to  lose  him  just  as  you  need  him  most.  I  wouldn't 
hate  so  many  of  the  things  about  me  if  I  had  him  to  go 
to  now  and  then." 

"Tell  me  about  him  and  your  early  life,"  cried  Peter, 
crossing  one  leg  over  the  other.  He  knew  the  key  had 
been  struck;  the  boy  might  now  play  on  as  he  chose. 

"There  is  very  little  to  tell.  I  lived  in  the  old  home 
with  an  aunt  after  my  father's  death.  And  went  to 
school  and  then  to  college  at  Hagerstown — quite  a 
small  college — where  uncle  looked  after  me — he  paid 
the  expenses  really — and  then  I  was  clerk  in  a  law 
office  for  a  while,  and  at  my  aunt's  death  about  a  year 
ago  the  old  place  was  sold  and  I  had  no  home,  and 
Uncle  Arthur  sent  for  me  to  come  here." 

"Very  decent  in  him,  and  you  should  never  forget 
him  for  it,"  and  again  Peter's  eyes  roamed  around  the 
perfectly  appointed  room. 

"I  know  it,  sir,  and  at  first  the  very  newness  and 
strangeness  of  everything  delighted  me.  Then  I  began 
to  meet  the  people.  They  were  so  different  from  those 
in  my  part  of  the  country,  especially  the  young  fellows 
— Garry  is  not  so  bad,  because  he  really  loves  his  work 
and  is  bound  to  succeed — everybody  says  he  has  a 

71 


PETER 

genius  for  architecture — but  the  others — and  the  way 
they  treat  the  young  girls,  and  what  is  more  unac- 
countable to  me  is  the  way  the  young  girls  put  up  with  it." 

Peter  had  settled  himself  deeper  in  his  chair,  his  eyes 
shaded  with  one  hand  and  looked  intently  at  the  boy. 

"Uncle  Arthur  is  kind  to  me,  but  the  life  smothers 
me.  I  can't  breathe  sometimes.  Nothing  my  father 
taught  me  is  considered  worth  while  here.  People  care 
for  other  things." 

"What,  for  instance?"  Peter's  hand  never  moved, 
nor  did  his  body. 

"Why  stocks  and  bonds  and  money,  for  instance," 
laughed  Jack,  beginning  to  be  annoyed  at  his  own 
tirade — half  ashamed  of  it  in  fact.  "Stocks  are  good 
enough  in  their  way,  but  you  don't  want  to  live  with 
them  from  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning  till  four  o'clock 
in  the  afternoon,  and  then  hear  nothing  else  talked 
about  until  you  go  to  bed.  That's  why  that  dinner 
last  night  made  such  an  impression  on  me.  Nobody 
said  money  once." 

"  But  every  one  of  those  men  had  his  own  hobby 

"Yes,  but  in  my  uncle's  world  they  all  ride  one 
and  the  same  horse.  I  don't  want  to  be  a  pessimist,  Mr. 
Grayson,  and  I  want  you  to  set  me  straight  if  I  am 
wrong,  but  Mr.  Morris  and  every  one  of  those  men 
about  him  were  the  first  men  I've  seen  in  New  York 
who  appear  to  me  to  be  doing  the  things  that  will  live 
after  them.  What  are  we  doing  down-town?  Gam- 
bling the  most  of  us." 

"But  your  life  here  isn't  confined  to  your  uncle  and 
72 


PETER 

his  stock-gambling  friends.  Surely  these  lovely  young 
girls — two  of  them  came  in  with  me —  '  and  Peter 
smiled,  "must  make  your  life  delightful." 

Jack's  eyes  sought  the  floor,  then  he  answered 
slowly : 

"I  hope  you  won't  think  me  a  cad,  but —  No,  Fm 
not  going  to  say  a  word  about  them,  only  I  can't  get 
accustomed  to  them  and  there's  no  use  of  my  saying 
that  I  can.  I  couldn't  treat  any  girl  the  way  they  are 
treated  here.  And  I  tell  you  another  thing — none  of 
the  young  girls  whom  I  know  at  home  would  treat  me 
as  these  girls  treat  the  men  they  know.  I'm  queer,  I 
guess,  but  I  might  as  well  make  a  clean  breast  of  it  all. 
I  am  an  ingrate,  perhaps,  but  I  can't  help  thinking  that 
the  old  life  at  home  was  the  best.  We  loved  our 
friends,  and  they  were  welcome  at  our  table  any  hour, 
day  or  night.  We  had  plenty  of  time  for  everything; 
we  lived  out  of  doors  or  in  doors,  just  as  we  pleased, 
and  we  dressed  to  suit  ourselves,  and  nobody  criticised. 
Why,  if  I  drop  into  the  Magnolia  on  my  way  up-town 
and  forget  to  wear  a  derby  hat  with  a  sack  coat,  or  a 
black  tie  with  a  dinner-jacket,  everybody  winks  and 
nudges  his  neighbor.  Did  you  ever  hear  of  such  non- 
sense in  your  life?" 

The  boy  paused  as  if  the  memory  of  some  incident 
in  which  he  was  ridiculed  was  alive  in  his  mind.  Peter's 
eyes  were  still  fixed  on  his  face. 

"Go  on — I'm  listening;  and  what  else  hurts  you? 
Pour  it  all  out.  That's  what  I  came  for.  You  said 
last  night  nobody  would  listen — I  will." 

73 


PETER 

"Well,  then,  I  hate  the  sham  of  it  all;  the  silly 
social  distinctions;  the  fits  and  starts  of  hospitality; 
the  dinners  given  for  show.  Nothing  else  going  on 
between  times;  even  the  music  is  hired.  I  want  to  hear 
music  that  bubbles  out — old  Hannah  singing  in  the 
kitchen,  and  Tom,  my  father's  old  butler,  whistling  to 
himself — and  the  dogs  barking,  and  the  birds  singing 
outside.  I'm  ashamed  of  myself  making  comparisons, 
but  that  was  the  kind  of  life  I  loved,  because  there 
was  sincerity  in  it." 

"No  work?"  There  was  a  note  of  sly  merriment  in 
the  inquiry,  but  Jack  never  caught  it. 

"Not  much.  My  father  was  Judge  and  spent  part 
of  the  time  holding  court,  and  his  work  never  lasted 
but  a  few  hours  a  day,  and  when  I  wanted  to  go  fishing 
or  shooting,  or  riding  with  the  girls,  Mr.  Larkin  always 
let  me  off.  And  I  had  plenty  of  time  to  read — and  for 
that  matter  I  do  here,  if  I  lock  myself  up  in  this  room. 
That  low  library  over  there  is  full  of  my  father's 
books." 

Again  Peter's  voice  had  a  tinge  of  merriment  in 
it. 

"And  who  supported  the  family?"  he  asked  in  a 
lower  voice. 

"My  father." 

"And  who  supported  him?" 

The  question  brought  Jack  to  a  full  stop.  He  had 
been  running  on,  pouring  out  his  heart  for  the  first 
time  since  his  sojourn  in  New  York,  and  to  a  listener 
whom  he  knew  he  could  trust. 

74 


PETER 

"Why — his  salary,  of  course,"  answered  Jack  in 
astonishment,  after  a  pause. 

"Anything  else?" 

"Yes— the  farm." 

"And  who  worked  that?" 

"My  father's  negroes — some  of  them  his  former 
slaves." 

"And  have  you  any  money  of  your  own — anything 
your  father  left  you  ?" 

"Only  enough  to  pay  taxes  on  some  wild  lands  up  in 
Cumberland  County,  and  which  I'm  going  to  hold  on 
to  for  his  sake." 

Peter  dropped  his  shading  fingers,  lifted  his  body  from 
the  depths  of  the  easy  chair  and  leaned  forward  so  that 
the  light  fell  full  on  his  face.  He  had  all  the  informa- 
tion he  wanted  now. 

"And  now  let  me  tell  you  my  story,  my  lad.  It  is 
a  very  short  one.  I  had  the  same  sort  of  a  home, 
but  no  father — none  that  I  remember — and  no  mother; 
they  both  died  before  my  sister  Felicia  and  I  were 
grown  up.  At  twelve  I  left  school;  at  fifteen  I  worked 
in  a  country  store — up  at  daylight  and  to  bed  at  mid- 
night, often.  From  twenty  to  twenty-five  I  was  entry 
clerk  in  a  hardware  store;  then  book-keeper;  then 
cashier  in  a  wagon  factory;  then  clerk  in  a  village 
bank — then  book-keeper  again  in  my  present  bank, 
and  there  I  have  been  ever  since.  My  only  advantages 
were  a  good  constitution  and  the  fact  that  I  came  of 
gentle  people.  Here  we  are  both  alike — you  at  twenty 
— how  old? — twenty  two?  .  .  .  Well,  make  it  twenty- 

75 


PETER 

two.  .  .  .  You  at  twenty-two  and  I  at  twenty-two 
seem  to  have  started  out  in  life  with  the  same  natural 
advantages,  so  far  as  years  and  money  go,  but  with 
this  difference —  Shall  I  tell  you  what  it  is  ? " 

"Yes." 

"That  I  worked  and  loved  it,  and  love  it  still,  and 
that  you  are  lazy  and  love  your  ease.  Don't  be  offend- 
ed— "  Here  Peter  laid  his  hand  on  the  boy's  knee. 
He  waited  an  instant,  and  not  getting  any  reply,  kept 
on:  "What  you  want  to  do  is  to  go  to  work.  It 
wouldn't  have  been  honorable  in  you  to  let  your  father 
support  you  after  you  were  old  enough  to  earn  your 
own  living,  and  it  isn't  honorable  in  you,  with  your 
present  opinions,  to  live  on  your  uncle's  bounty,  and 
to  be  discontented  and  rebellious  at  that,  for  that's 
about  what  it  all  amounts  to.  You  certainly  couldn't 
pay  for  these  comforts  outside  of  this  house  on  what 
Breen  &  Co.  can  afford  to  pay  you.  Half  of  your 
mental  unrest,  my  lad,  is  due  to  the  fact  that  you  do 
not  know  the  joy  and  comfort  to  be  got  out  of  plain, 
common,  unadulterated  work." 

"I'll  do  anything  that  is  not  menial." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  'menial'?" 

"Well,  working  like  a  day-laborer." 

"Most  men  who  have  succeeded  have  first  worked 
with  their  hands." 

"Not  my  uncle." 

"  No,  not  your  uncle — he's  an  exception — one  among 
a  million,  and  then  again  he  isn't  through." 

"But  he's  worth  two  million,  they  say." 
76 


PETER 

"Yes,  but  he  never  earned  it,  and  he  never  worked 
for  it,  and  he  doesn't  now.  Do  you  want  to  follow  in 
his  footsteps?" 

"No — not  with  all  his  money."  This  came  in  a 
decided  tone.  "But  surely  you  wouldn't  want  me  to 
work  with  my  hands,  would  you?" 

"I  certainly  should,  if  necessary." 

Jack  looked  at  him,  and  a  shade  of  disappointment 
crossed  his  face. 

"But  I  couldn't  do  anything  menial." 

"There  isn't  anything  menial  in  any  kind  of  work 
from  cleaning  a  stable  up!  The  menial  things  are  the 
evasions  of  work — tricks  by  which  men  are  cheated  out 
of  their  just  dues." 

"Stock  gambling?" 

"Yes — sometimes,  when  the  truth  is  withheld." 

"That's  what  I  think;  that's  what  I  meant  last  night 
when  I  told  you  about  the  faro-bank.  I  laughed  over 
it,  and  yet  I  can't  see  much  difference,  although  I  have 
never  seen  one." 

"So  I  understood,  but  you  were  wrong  about  it. 
Your  uncle  bears  a  very  good  name  in  the  Street.  He 
is  not  as  much  to  blame  as  the  system.  Perhaps  some 
day  the  firm  will  become  real  bankers,  than  which  there 
is  no  more  honorable  calling." 

"But  is  it  wrong  to  want  to  fish  and  shoot  and  have 
time  to  read." 

"  No,  it  is  wrong  not  to  do  it  when  you  have  the  time 
and  the  money.  I  like  that  side  of  your  nature.  My 
own  theory  is  that  every  man  should  in  the  twenty-four 

77 


PETER 

hours  of  the  day  devote  eight  to  work,  eight  to 
sleep  and  eight  to  play.  But  this  can  only  be  done 
when  the  money  to  support  the  whole  twenty-four 
hours  is  in  sight,  either  in  wages,  or  salary,  or  in- 
vested securities.  More  money  than  this — that  is  the 
surplusage  that  men  lock  up  in  their  tin  boxes,  is  a 
curse.  But  with  that  you  have  nothing  to  do — not 
yet,  anyhow.  Now,  if  I  catch  your  meaning,  your 
idea  is  to  go  back  to  your  life  at  home.  In  other 
words  you  want  to  live  the  last  end  of  your  life  first — 
and  without  earning  the  right  to  it.  And  because  you 
cannot  do  this  you  give  yourself  up  to  criticising  every- 
thing about  you.  Getting  only  at  the  faults  and  missing 
all  the  finer  things  in  life.  If  you  would  permit  me  to 
advise  you — "  he  still  had  his  hand  on  the  lad's  knee, 
searching  the  soft  brown  eyes — "I  would  give  up 
finding  fault  and  first  try  to  better  things,  and  I 
would  begin  right  here  where  you  are.  Some  of 
the  great  banking  houses  which  keep  the  pendulum 
of  the  world  swinging  true  have  grown  to  importance 
through  just  such  young  men  as  yourself,  who  were 
honest  and  had  high  ideals  and  who  so  impressed  their 
own  personalities  upon  everybody  about  them — cus- 
tomers and  employers — that  the  tone  of  the  concern 
was  raised  at  once  and  with  it  came  a  world-wide 
success.  I  have  been  thirty  years  on  the  Street  and 
have  watched  the  rise  of  half  the  firms  about  me,  and 
in  every  single  instance  some  one  of  the  younger  men — 
boys,  many  of  them — has  pulled  the  concern  up  and 
out  of  a  quagmire  and  stood  it  on  its  feet.  And  the  re- 

78 


PETER 

verse  is  true :  half  the  downfalls  have  come  from  those 
same  juniors,  who  thought  they  knew  some  short  road 
to  success,  which  half  the  time  was  across  disreputable 
back  lots.  Why  not  give  up  complaining  and  see 
what  better  things  you  can  do  ?  I'm  not  quite  satisfied 
about  your  having  stayed  upstairs  even  to  receive  me. 
Your  aunt  loves  society  and  the  daughter — what  did 
you  say  her  name  was — Corinne  ?  Yes,  Miss  Corinne 
being  young,  loves  to  have  a  good  time.  Listen!  do 
you  hear? — there  goes  another  waltz.  Now,  as  long 
as  you  do  live  here,  why  not  join  in  it  too  and  help 
out  the  best  you  can? — and  if  you  have  anything  of 
your  own  to  offer  in  the  way  of  good  cheer,  or  thought- 
fulness,  or  kindness,  or  whatever  you  do  have  which 
they  lack — or  rather  what  you  think  they  lack — 
wouldn't  it  be  wiser — wouldn't  it — if  you  will  permit 
me,  my  lad — be  a  little  better  bred  to  contribute  some- 
thing of  your  own  excellence  to  the  festivity?" 

It  was  now  Jack's  turn  to  lean  back  in  his  chair  and 
cover  his  face,  but  with  two  ashamed  hands.  Not 
since  his  father's  death  had  any  one  talked  to  him  like 
this — never  with  so  much  tenderness  and  truth  and 
with  every  word  meant  for  his  good.  All  his  self- 
righteousness,  his  silly  conceit  and  vainglory  stood 
out  before  him.  What  an  ass  he  had  been.  What  a 
coxcomb.  What  a  boor,  really. 

"What  would  you  have  me  do?"  he  asked,  a  tone 
of  complete  surrender  in  his  voice.  The  portrait  and 
Peter  were  one  and  the  same !  His  father  had  come  to 
life. 

79 


PETER 

"I  don't  know  yet.  We'll  think  about  that  another 
time,  but  we  won't  do  it  now.  I  ought  to  be  ashamed 
of  myself  for  having  spoiled  your  evening  by  such 
serious  talk  (he  wasn't  ashamed — he  had  come  for  that 
very  purpose).  Now  show  me  some  of  your  books  and 
tell  me  what  you  read,  and  what  you  love  best." 

He  was  out  of  the  chair  before  he  ceased  speaking,  his 
heels  striking  the  floor,  bustling  about  in  his  prompt, 
exact  manner,  examining  the  few  curios  and  keepsakes 
on  the  mantel  and  tables,  running  his  eyes  over  the 
rows  of  bindings  lining  the  small  bookcase;  his  hand  on 
Jack's  shoulder  whenever  the  boy  opened  some  fav- 
orite author  to  hunt  for  a  passage  to  read  aloud  to 
Peter,  listening  with  delight,  whether  the  quotation 
was  old  or  new  to  him. 

Jack,  suddenly  remembering  that  his  guest  was 
standing,  tried  to  lead  him  back  to  his  seat  by  the  fire, 
but  Peter  would  have  none  of  it. 

1  'No — too  late.  Why,  bless  me,  it's  after  eleven 
o'clock!  Hear  the  music — they  are  still  at  it.  Now 
I'm  going  to  insist  that  you  go  down  and  have  a  turn 
around  the  room  yourself;  there  were  such  a  lot  of 
pretty  girls  when  I  came  in." 

"Too  late  for  that,  too,"  laughed  Jack,  merry  once 
more.  "Corinne  wouldn't  speak  to  me  if  I  showed 
my  face  now,  and  then  there  will  be  plenty  more 
dances  which  I  can  go  to,  and  so  make  it  all  up  with 
her.  I'm  not  yet  as  sorry  as  I  ought  to  be  about 
this  dance.  Your  being  here  has  been  such  a  delight. 
May  I — may — I  come  and  see  you  some  time  ?  " 

80 


PETER 

"That's  just  what  you  will  do,  and  right  away. 
Just  as  soon  as  my  dear  sister  Felicia  comes  down,  and 
she'll  be  here  very  soon.  I'll  send  for  you,  never 
fear.  Yes,  the  right  sleeve  first,  and  now  my  hat  and 
umbrella.  Ah,  here  they  are.  Now,  good  night, 
my  boy,  and  thank  you  for  letting  me  come." 

"You  know  I  dare  not  go  down  with  you,"  explained 
Jack  with  a  smile. 

"Oh,  yes — I  know — I  know.  Good  night — "  and 
the  sharp,  quick  tread  of  the  old  man  grew  fainter 
and  fainter  as  he  descended  the  stairs. 

Jack  waited,  craning  his  head,  until  he  caught  a 
glimpse  of  the  glistening  head  as  it  passed  once  more 
under  the  lantern,  then  he  went  into  his  room  and 
shut  the  door. 

Had  he  followed  behind  his  guest  he  would  have 
witnessed  a  little  comedy  which  would  have  gone  far 
in  wiping  clean  all  trace  of  his  uncle's  disparaging 
remarks  of  the  morning.  He  would  have  enjoyed, 
too,  Parkins's  amazement.  As  the  Receiving  Teller 
of  the  Exeter  Bank  reached  the  hall  floor  the  President 
of  the  Clearing  House — the  most  distinguished  man 
in  the  Street  and  one  to  whom  Breen  kotowed  with 
genuflections  equalling  those  of  Parkins — accompanied 
by  his  daughter  and  followed  by  the  senior  partner  of 
Breen  &  Co.,  were  making  their  way  to  the  front  door. 
The  second  man  in  the  chocolate  livery  with  the  potato- 
bug  waistcoat  had  brought  the  Magnate's  coat  and 
hat,  and  Parkins  stood  with  his  hand  on  the  door-knob. 
Then,  to  the  consternation  of  both  master  and  servant, 

81 


PETER 

the  great  man  darted  forward  and  seized  Peter's 
hand. 

"Why,  my  dear  Mr.  Grayson!  This  is  indeed  a 
pleasure.  I  didn't  see  you — were  you  inside?" 

"No — I've  been  upstairs  with  young  Mr.  Breen," 
replied  Peter,  with  a  comprehensive  bow  to  Host, 
Magnate  and  Magnate's  daughter.  Then,  with  the 
grace  and  dignity  of  an  ambassador  quitting  a  salon, 
he  passed  out  into  the  night. 

Breen  found  his  breath  first:  "And  you  know  him?" 

"Know  him!"  cried  the  Magnate — "of  course  I 
know  him!  One  of  the  most  delightful  men  in  New 
York;  and  I'm  glad  that  you  do — you're  luckier  than 
I — try  as  I  may  I  can  hardly  ever  get  him  inside  my 
house." 

I  was  sitting  up  for  the  old  fellow  when  he  entered 
his  cosey  red  room  and  dropped  into  a  chair  before  the 
fire.  I  had  seen  the  impression  the  young  man  had 
made  upon  him  at  the  dinner  and  was  anxious  to  learn 
the  result  of  his  visit.  I  had  studied  the  boy  somewhat 
myself,  noting  his  bright  smile,  clear,  open  face  with- 
out a  trace  of  guile,  and  the  enthusiasm  that  took 
possession  of  him  when  his  friend  won  the  prize. 
That  he  was  outside  the  class  of  young  men  about  him 
I  could  see  from  a  certain  timidity  of  glance  and 
gesture — as  if  he  wanted  to  be  kept  in  the  background . 
Would  the  old  fellow,  I  wondered,  burden  his  soul 
with  still  another  charge? 

Peter  was  laughing  when  he  entered ;  he  had  laughed 
82 


PETER 

all  the  way  down-town,  he  told  me.  What  particularly 
delighted  him — and  here  he  related  the  Portman  inci- 
dent— was  the  change  in  Breen's  face  when  old  Port- 
man grasped  his  hand  so  cordially. 

"Made  of  pinchbeck,  my  dear  Major,  both  of  them, 
and  yet  how  genuine  it  looks  on  the  surface,  and  what 
a  lot  of  it  is  in  circulation.  Quite  as  good  as  the  real 
thing  if  you  don't  know  the  difference,"  and  again  he 
laughed  heartily. 

"And  the  boy/'  I  asked,  "was  he  disappointing ?" 

"Young  Breen?— not  a  bit  of  it.  He's  like  all  the 
young  fellows  who  come  up  here  from  the  South — es- 
pecially the  country  districts — and  he's  from  western 
Maryland,  he  says.  Got  queer  ideas  about  work  and 
what  a  gentleman  should  do  to  earn  his  living — same 
old  talk.  Hot-house  plants  most  of  them — never 
amount  to  anything,  really,  until  they  are  pruned  and 
set  out  in  the  cold." 

"Got  any  sense?"  I  ventured. 

"No,  not  much — not  yet — but  he's  got  tempera- 
ment and  refinement  and  a  ten  commandments'  code 
of  morals." 

"Rather  rare,  isn't  it?"  I  asked. 

"Yes — perhaps  so." 

"And  I  suppose  you  are  going  to  take  him  up  and 
do  for  him,  like  the  others." 

Peter  picked  up  the  poker  and  made  a  jab  at  the 
fire;  then  he  answered  slowly: 

"Well,  Major,  I  can't  tell  yet — not  positively.  But 
he's  certainly  worth  saving." 

83 


CHAPTER  VII 

With  the  closing  of  the  front  door  upon  the  finest 
Old  Gentleman  in  the  World,  a  marked  change  took 
place  in  the  mental  mechanism  of  several  of  our  most 
important  characters.  The  head  of  the  firm  of  Breen 
&  Co.  was  so  taken  aback  that  for  the  moment  that 
shrewdest  of  financiers  was  undecided  as  to  whether 
he  or  Parkins  should  rush  out  into  the  night  after  the 
departing  visitor  and  bring  him  back,  and  open  the 
best  in  the  cellar.  "Send  a  man  out  of  my  house," 
he  said  to  himself,  "whom  Portman  couldn't  get  to 
his  table  except  at  rare  intervals!  Well,  that's  one 
on  me!" 

The  lid  that  covered  the  upper  half  of  Parkins's 
intelligence  also  received  a  jolt;  it  was  a  coal-hole  lid 
that  covered  emptiness,  but  now  and  then  admitted 
the  light. 

"Might  'ave  known  from  the  clothes  'e  wore  'e  was 
no  common  pwr-son,"  he  said  to  himself.  "To  tell 
you  the  truth — "  this  to  the  second  man  in  the  potato- 
bug  waistcoat,  when  they  were  dividing  between  them 
the  bottle  of  "Extra  Dry"  three-quarters  full,  that 
Parkins  had  smuggled  into  the  pantry  with  the  empty 
bottles  ("Dead  Men,"  Breen  called  them)— "to 

84 


PETER 

tell  you  the  truth,  Frederick,  when  I  took  'is  'at  and 
coat  hupstairs  'e  give  me  a  real  start  'e  looked  that 
respectable." 

As  to  Jack,  not  only  his  mind  but  his  heart  were  in 
a  whirl. 

Half  the  night  he  lay  awake  wondering  what  he 
could  do  to  follow  Peter's  advice  while  preserving  his 
own  ideals.  He  had  quite  forgotten  that  part  of  the 
older  man's  counsel  which  referred  to  the  dignity  of 
work,  even  of  that  work  which  might  be  considered 
as  menial.  If  the  truth  must  be  told,  it  was  his  vanity 
alone  which  had  been  touched  by  the  suggestion  that 
in  him  might  lay  the  possibility  of  reforming  certain 
conditions  around  him.  He  was  willing,  even  anxious, 
to  begin  on  Breen  &  Co.,  subjecting  his  uncle,  if 
need  be,  to  a  vigorous  overhauling.  Nothing  he  felt 
could  daunt  him  in  his  present  militant  state,  upheld, 
as  he  felt  that  he  was,  by  the  approval  of  Peter.  Not 
a  very  rational  state  of  mind,  the  Scribe  must  confess, 
and  only  to  be  accounted  for  by  the  fact  that  Peter's 
talk,  instead  of  clearing  Jack's  mind  of  old  doubts, 
had  really  clouded  it  the  more — quite  as  a  bottle  of 
mixture  when  shaken  sends  its  insoluble  particles 
whirling  throughout  the  whole. 

It  was  not  until  the  following  morning,  indeed,  that 
the  sediment  began  to  settle,  and  some  of  the  sanity 
of  Peter's  wholesome  prescription  to  produce  a  clarify- 
ing effect.  As  long  as  he,  Jack,  lived  upon  his  uncle's 
bounty — and  that  was  really  what  it  amounted  it — 
he  must  at  least  try  to  contribute  his  own  quota  of 

85 


PETER 

good  cheer  and  courtesy.  This  was  what  Peter  had 
done  him  the  honor  to  advise,  and  he  must  begin  at  once 
if  he  wanted  to  show  his  appreciation  of  the  courtesy. 

His  uncle  opened  the  way: 

"Why,  I  didn't  know  until  I  saw  him  go  out  that 
he  was  a  friend  of  Mr.  Portman's,"  he  said  as  he  sipped 
his  coffee. 

"Neither  did  I.  But  does  it  make  any  difference?" 
answered  Jack,  flipping  off  the  top  of  his  egg. 

"Well  I  should  think  so — about  ninety-nine  and  nine- 
tenths  per  cent.,"  replied  the  older  man  emphatically. 
"Let's  invite  him  to  dinner,  Jack.  Maybe  he'll  come 
to  one  I'm  giving  next  week  and " 

"I'll  ask  him — that  is  ...  perhaps,  though,  you 
might  write  him  a  note,  uncle,  and " 

"Of  course,"  interrupted  Breen,  ignoring  the  sug- 
gestion, "when  I  wanted  you  to  take  him  to  the  club 
I  didn't  know  who  he  was." 

"Of  course  you  did  not,"  echoed  Jack,  suppressing 
a  smile. 

"The  club!  No,  not  by  a  damned  sight!"  ex- 
claimed the  head  of  the  house  of  Breen.  As  this 
latter  observation  was  addressed  to  the  circumambient 
air,  and  not  immediately  to  Jack,  it  elicited  no  response. 
Although  slightly  profane,  Jack  was  clever  enough  to 
read  in  its  tones  not  only  ample  apology  for  previous 
criticisms  but  a  sort  of  prospective  reparation,  where- 
upon our  generous  young  gentleman  forgave  his  uncle 
at  once,  and  thought  that  from  this  on  he  might  like 
him  the  better. 

86 


PETER 

Even  Parkins  came  in  for  a  share  of  Jack's  most 
gracious  intentions,  and  though  he  was  as  silent  as  an 
automaton  playing  a  game  of  chess,  a  slight  crack 
was  visible  in  the  veneer  of  his  face  when  Jack  thanked 
him  for  having  brought  Mr.  Grayson — same  reverential 
pronunciation — upstairs  himself  instead  of  allowing 
Frederick  or  one  of  the  maid-servants  to  perform  that 
service. 

As  for  his  apologies  to  Corinne  and  his  aunt  for 
having  remained  in  his  room  after  Mr.  Grayson's 
departure,  instead  of  taking  part  in  the  last  hours  of 
the  dance — one  o'clock  was  the  exact  hour — these 
were  reserved  until  those  ladies  should  appear  at  din- 
ner, when  they  were  made  with  so  penitential  a  ring  in 
his  voice  that  his  aunt  at  once  jumped  to  the  conclusion 
that  he  must  have  been  bored  jto  death  by  the  old  fellow, 
while  Corinne  hugged  herself  in  the  belief  that  perhaps 
after  all  Jack  was  renewing  his  interest  in  her;  a  delu- 
sion which  took  such  possession  of  her  small  head  that 
she  finally  determined  to  send  Garry  a  note  begging  him 
to  come  to  her  at  once,  on  business  of  the  utmost  im- 
portance; two  strings  being  better  than  one,  especially 
when  they  were  to  be  played  each  against  the  other. 

As  to  the  uplifting  of  the  house  of  Breen  &  Co., 
and  the  possibility  of  so  small  a  tail  as  himself  being 
able  to  wag  so  large  a  dog  as  his  uncle  and  his  partners, 
that  seemed  now  to  be  so  chimerical  an  undertaking 
that  he  laughed  when  he  thought  of  it. 

This  urbanity  of  mood  was  still  with  him  when  some 
days  later  he  dropped  into  the  Magnolia  Club  on  his 

87 


PETER 

way  home,  his  purpose  being  to  find  Garry  and  to  hear 
about  the  supper  which  his  club  friends  had  given  him 
to  celebrate  his  winning  of  the  Morris  ring. 

Little  Biffton  was  keeping  watch  when  Jack  swung 
in  with  that  free  stride  of  his  that  showed  more  than 
anything  else  his  muscular  body  and  the  way  he 
had  taken  care  of  and  improved  it.  No  dumb-bells 
or  clubs  for  fifteen  minutes  in  the  morning — but 
astride  a  horse,  his  thighs  gripping  a  bare-back,  roam- 
ing the  hills  day  after  day — the  kind  of  outdoor  experi- 
ence that  hardens  a  man  all  over  without  specializing 
his  biceps  or  his  running  gear.  Little  Biff  never  had 
any  swing  to  his  gait — none  that  his  fellows  ever 
noticed.  Biff  went  in  for  repose — sometimes  hours  at  a 
time.  Given  a  club  chair,  a  package  of  cigarettes  and 
some  one  to  talk  to  him  and  Biff  could  be  happy  a 
whole  afternoon. 

"Ah,  Breen,  old  man!  Come  to  anchor."  Here 
he  moved  back  a  chair  an  inch  or  two  with  his  foot, 
and  pushed  his  silver  cigarette-case  toward  the  new- 
comer. 

" Thank  you,"  replied  Jack.  "I've  just  dropped  in 
to  look  for  Garry  Minott.  Has  he  been  in  ?" 

Biff  was  the  bulletin-board  of  the  Magnolia  club. 
As  he  roomed  upstairs,  he  could  be  found  here  at  any 
hour  of  the  day  or  night. 

Biff  did  not  reply  at  once;  there  was  no  use  in  hurry- 
ing— not  about  anything.  Besides,  the  connection  be- 
tween Biff's  ears  and  his  brain  was  never  very  good. 
One  had  to  ring  him  up  several  times  before  he  answered. 

88 


PETER 

Jack  waited  for  an  instant,  and  finding  that  the  mes- 
sage was  delayed  in  transmission,  helped  himself  to 
one  of  Biff's  "Specials" — bearing  in  gold  letters  his 
name  "Brent  Biffton"  in  full  on  the  rice  paper — 
dropped  into  the  proffered  chair  and  repeated  the 
question : 

"Have  you  seen  Garry?" 

"Yes — upstairs.  Got  a  deck  in  the  little  room. 
Been  there  all  afternoon.  Might  go  up  and  butt  in. 
Touch  that  bell  before  you  go  and  say  what. " 

"No — I  won't  drink  anything,  if  you  don't  mind. 
You  heard  about  Garry's  winning  the  prize?" 

"No."  Biffton  hadn't  moved  since  he  had  elongated 
his  foot  in  search  of  Jack's  chair. 

"Why  Garry  got  first  prize  in  his  office.  I  went 
with  him  to  the  supper;  he's  with  Holker  Morris,  you 
know." 

"Yes.  Rather  nice.  Yes,  I  did  hear.  The  fellows 
blew  him  off  upstairs.  Kept  it  up  till  the  steward 
shut  'em  out.  Awfully  clever  fellow,  Minott.  My 
Governor  wanted  me  to  do  something  in  architecture, 
but  it  takes  such  a  lot  of  time.  .  .  .  Funny  how  a 
fellow  will  dress  himself."  Biffton's  sleepy  eyes  were 
sweeping  the  Avenue.  "Pendergast  just  passed  wear- 
ing white  spats —  A  month  too  late  for  spats — ought 
to  know  better.  Touch  the  bell,  Breen,  and  say 
what." 

Again  Jack  thanked  him,  and  again  Biffton  relapsed 
into  silence.  Rather  a  damper  on  a  man  of  his  calibre, 
when  a  fellow  wouldn't  touch  a  bell  and  say  what. 

89 


PETER 

Jack  having  a  certain  timidity  about  "butting  in" — 
outsiders  didn't  do  such  things  where  he  came  from — 
settled  himself  into  the  depths  of  the  comfortable 
leather-covered  arm-chair  and  waited  for  Garry  to 
finish  his  game.  From  where  he  sat  he  could  not  only 
overlook  the  small  tables  holding  a  choice  collection 
of  little  tear-bottles,  bowls  of  crushed  ice  and  high- 
pressure  siphons,  but  his  eye  also  took  in  the  stretch 
beyond,  the  club  windows  commanding  the  view  up 
and  down  and  quite  across  the  Avenue,  as  well  as  the 
vista  to  the  left. 

This  outlook  was  the  most  valuable  asset  the  Mag- 
nolia possessed.  If  the  parasol  was  held  flat,  with  its 
back  to  the  club-house,  and  no  glimpse  of  the  pretty 
face  possible,  it  was,  of  course,  unquestionable  evidence 
to  the  member  looking  over  the  top  of  his  cocktail  that 
neither  the  hour  or  the  place  was  propitious.  If, 
however,  it  swayed  to  the  right  or  left,  or  better  still, 
was  folded  tight,  then  it  was  equally  conclusive  that 
not  only  was  the  coast  clear,  but  that  any  number  of 
things  might  happen,  either  at  Tiffany's,  or  the  Acad- 
emy, or  wherever  else  one  of  those  altogether  acci- 
dental —  •"  Why-who-would-have-thought-of-seeing-you- 
here"  kind  of  meetings  take  place — meetings  so  de- 
lightful in  themselves  because  so  unexpected. 

These  outlooks,  too,  were  useful  in  solving  many 
of  the  social  problems  that  afflicted  the  young  men 
about  town;  the  identity,  for  instance,  of  the  occupant 
of  the  hansom  who  had  just  driven  past,  heavily  veiled, 
together  with  her  destination  and  her  reason  for  being 

90 


PETER 

out  at  all;  why  the  four-in-hand  went  up  empty  and 
came  back  with  a  pretty  woman  beside  the  "Tooler," 
and  then  turned  up  a  side  street  toward  the  Park, 
instead  of  taking  the  Avenue  into  its  confidence; 
what  the  young  wife  of  the  old  doctor  meant  when  she 
waved  her  hand  to  the  occupant  of  a  third-story  window, 
and  who  lived  there,  and  why —  None  of  their  busi- 
ness, of  course — never  could  be — but  each  and  every 
escapade,  incident  and  adventure  being  so  much 
thrice-blessed  manna  to  souls  stranded  in  the  desert 
waste  of  club  conversation. 

None  of  these  things  interested  our  hero,  and  he 
soon  found  himself  listening  to  the  talk  at  an  adjoining 
table.  Topping,  a  young  lawyer,  Whitman  Bunce, 
a  man  of  leisure — unlimited  leisure — and  one  or  two 
others,  were  rewarming  some  of  the  day's  gossip. 

"Had  the  gall  to  tell  Bob's  man  he  couldn't  sleep  in 
linen  sheets;  had  his  own  violet  silk  ones  in  his  trunk, 
to  match  his  pajamas.  The  goat  had  'em  out  and  half 
on  the  bed  when  Bob  came  in  and  stopped  him.  Awful 
row,  I  heard,  when  Mrs.  Bob  got  on  to  it.  He'll  never 
go  there  again." 

"And  I  heard,"  broke  in  Bunce,  "that  she  ordered 
the  trap  and  sent  him  back  to  the  station." 

Other  bits  drifted  Jack's  way: 

"Why  he  was  waiting  at  the  stage-door  and  she 
slipped  out  somewhere  in  front.  Billy  was  with  her, 
so  I  heard.  .  .  .  When  they  got  to  Delmonico's  there 
came  near  being  a  scrap.  .  .  .  No.  .  .  .  Never  had 
a  dollar  on  Daisy  Belle,  or  any  other  horse.  ..." 

91 


PETER 

Loud  laughter  was  now  heard  at  the  end  of  the  hall. 
A  party  of  young  men  had  reached  the  foot  of  the 
stairs  and  were  approaching  Biffton  and  Jack.  Garry's 
merry  voice  led  the  others. 

"Still  hard  at  work,  are  you,  Biffy?  Why,  hello, 
Jack! — how  long  have  you  been  here?  Morion,  you 
know  Mr.  Breen,  don't  you  ? — Yes,  of  course  you  do — 
new  member — just  elected.  Get  a  move  on  that 
carcass  of  yours,  Biffy,  and  let  somebody  else  get  up 
to  that  table.  Charles,  take  the  orders." 

Jack  had  shaken  everybody's  hand  by  this  time, 
Biffton  having  moved  back  a  foot  or  two,  and  the 
circle  had  widened  so  that  the  poker  party  could 
reach  their  cocktails.  Garry  extended  his  arm  till 
his  hand  rested  on  Jack's  shoulder. 

"Nothing  sets  me  up  like  a  game  of  poker,  old  man. 
Been  on  the  building  all  day.  You  ought  to  come  up 
with  me  some  time — I'll  show  you  the  greatest  piece 
of  steel  construction  you  ever  saw.  Mr.  Morris  was 
all  over  it  to-day.  Oh,  by  the  way!  Did  that  old 
chunk  of  sandstone  come  up  to  see  you  last  night? 
What  did  you  say  his  name  was?" 

Jack  repeated  Peter's  cognomen — this  time  without 
rolling  the  syllables  under  his  tongue — said  that  Mr. 
Grayson  had  kept  his  promise;  that  the  evening  had 
been  delightful,  and  immediately  changed  the  subject. 
There  was  no  use  trying  to  convert  Garry. 

"And  now  tell  me  about  the  supper,"  asked  Jack. 

"Oh,  that  was  all  right.  We  whooped  it  up  till 
they  closed  the  bar  and  then  went  home  with  the 

92 


PETER 

milk.  Had  an  awful  head  on  me  next  morning; 
nearly  fell  off  the  scaffold,  I  was  so  sleepy.  How's 
Miss  Corinne?  I'm  going  to  stop  in  on  my  way  up- 
town this  afternoon  and  apologize  to  her.  I  have  her 
note,  but  I  haven't  had  a  minute  to  let  her  know  why 
I  didn't  come.  I'll  show  her  the  ring;  then  she'll 
know  why.  Saw  it,  didn't  you?" 

Jack  hadn't  seen  it.  He  had  been  too  excited  to 
look.  Now  he  examined  it.  With  the  flash  of  the 
gems  Biffy  sat  up  straight,  and  the  others  craned 
their  heads.  Garry  slipped  it  off  his  finger  for  the 
hundredth  time  for  similar  inspections,  and  Jack 
utilized  the  pause  in  the  conversation  to  say  that 
Corinne  had  received  the  note  and  that  in  reply  she  had 
vented  most  of  her  disappointment  on  himself,  a  dis- 
closure which  sent  a  cloud  across  Garry's  face. 

The  cocktail  hour  had  now  arrived — one  hour  be- 
fore dinner,  an  hour  which  was  fixed  by  that  dis- 
tinguished compounder  of  herbs  and  spirits,  Mr. 
Biffton — and  the  room  began  filling  up.  Most  of  the 
members  were  young  fellows  but  a  few  years  out  of 
college,  men  who  renewed  their  Society  and  club  life 
within  its  walls;  some  were  from  out  of  town — students 
in  the  various  professions.  Here  and  there  was  a  man 
of  forty — one  even  of  fifty-five — who  preferred  the 
gayer  and  fresher  life  of  the  younger  generation  to  the 
more  solemn  conclaves  of  the  more  exclusive  clubs 
further  up  and  further  down  town.  As  is  usual  in 
such  combinations,  the  units  forming  the  whole  sought 
out  their  own  congenial  units  and  were  thereafter  amal- 

93 


PETER 

gamated  into  groups,  a  classification  to  be  found  in 
all  clubs  the  world  over.  While  Biffy  and  his  chums 
could  always  be  found  together,  there  were  other  less- 
fortunate  young  fellows,  not  only  without  coupon 
shears,  but  sometimes  without  the  means  of  paying 
their  dues — who  formed  a  little  coterie  of  their  own, 
and  who  valued  and  used  the  club  for  what  it  brought 
them,  their  election  carrying  with  it  a  certain  social 
recognition:  it  also  widened  one's  circle  of  acquaint- 
ances and,  perhaps,  of  clients. 

The  sound  of  loud  talking  now  struck  upon  Jack's 
ear.  Something  more  important  than  the  angle  of  a 
parasol  or  the  wearing  of  out-of-date  spats  was  en- 
grossing the  attention  of  a  group  of  young  men  who 
had  just  entered.  Jack  caught  such  expressions  as — 
"Might  as  well  have  picked  his  pocket.  .  .  ."  "He's 
flat  broke,  anyhow.  ..."  "Got  to  sell  his  house,  I 
hear.  ..." 

Then  came  a  voice  louder  than  the  others. 

"There's  Breen  talking  to  Minott  and  Biffy.  He's 
in  the  Street;  he'll  know.  .  .  .  Say,  Breen!" 

Jack  rose  to  his  feet  and  met  the  speaker  half  way. 

"What  do  you  know,  Breen,  about  that  scoop  in 
gold  stock?  Heard  anything  about  it?  Who  engi- 
neered it?  Charley  Gilbert's  cleaned  out,  I  hear." 

"I  don't  know  anything,"  said  Jack.  "I  left  the 
office  at  noon  and  came  up  town.  Who  did  you  say 
was  cleaned  out?" 

"Why,  Charley  Gilbert.     You  must  know  him." 

"Yes,  I  know  him.     What's  happened  to  him?" 
94 


PETER 

"Flat  broke — that's  what  happened  to  him.  Got 
caught  in  that  gold  swindle.  The  stock  dropped  out 
of  sight  this  afternoon,  I  hear — went  down  forty  points." 

Garry  crowded  his  way  into  the  group:  "Which 
Mr.  Gilbert?— not  Charley  M.,  the " 

"Yes;  Sam's  just  left  him.  What  did  he  tell  you, 
Sam?" 

"  Just  what  you've  said — I  hear,  too,  that  he  has  got 
to  stop  on  his  house  out  in  Jersey.  Can't  finish  it 
and  can't  pay  for  what's  been  done." 

Garry  gave  a  low  whistle  and  looked  at  Jack. 

"That's  rough.  Mr.  Morris  drew  the  plan  of 
Gilbert's  house  himself.  I  worked  on  the  details." 

"Rough!"  burst  out  the  first  speaker.  "I  should 
say  it  was — might  as  well  have  burglared  his  safe. 
They  have  been  working  up  this  game  for  months, 
so  Charley  told  me.  Then  they  gave  out  that  the  lode 
had  petered  out  and  they  threw  it  overboard  and  every- 
body with  it.  They  said  they  tried  to  find  Charley 
to  post  him,  but  he  was  out  of  town." 

"Who  tried?"  asked  Jack,  with  renewed  interest, 
edging  his  way  close  to  the  group.  It  was  just  as  well 
to  know  the  sheep  from  the  goats,  if  he  was  to  spend 
the  remainder  of  his  life  in  the  Street. 

"That's  what  we  want  to  know.  Thought  you 
might  have  heard." 

Jack  shook  his  head  and  resumed  his  seat  beside 
Biffy,  who  had  not  moved  or  shown  the  slightest 
interest  in  the  affair.  Nobody  could  sell  Biff  any  gold 
stock — nor  any  other  kind  of  stock.  His  came  on  the 

95 


PETER 

first  of  every  month  in  a  check  from  the  Trust  Com- 
pany. 

For  some  moments  Jack  did  not  speak.  He  knew 
young  Gilbert,  and  he  knew  his  young  and  very  charm- 
ing wife.  He  had  once  sat  next  to  her  at  dinner,  when 
her  whole  conversation  had  been  about  this  new  home 
and  the  keen  interest  that  Morris,  a  friend  of  her 
father's,  had  taken  in  it.  "Mr.  Breen,  you  and  Miss 
Corinne  must  be  among  our  earliest  guests,"  she  had 
said,  at  which  Corinne,  who  was  next  to  Garry,  had 
ducked  her  little  head  in  acceptance.  This  was  the 
young  fellow,  then,  who  had  been  caught  in  one  of  the 
eddies  whirling  over  the  sunken  rocks  of  the  Street. 
Not  very  creditable  to  his  intelligence,  perhaps,  thought 
Jack;  but,  then,  again,  who  had  placed  them  there, 
a  menace  to  navigation  ? — and  why  ?  Certainly  Peter 
could  not  have  known  everything  that  was  going  on 
around  him,  if  he  thought  the  effort  of  so  insignificant 
an  individual  as  himself  could  be  of  use  in  clearing  out 
obstructions  like  these. 

Garry  noticed  the  thoughtful  expression  settling  over 
Jack's  face,  and  mistaking  the  cause  called  Charles 
to  take  the  additional  orders. 

"Cheer  up — try  a  high-baft,  Jack.  It's  none  of 
your  funeral.  You  didn't  scoop  Gilbert;  we  are  the 
worst  sufferers.  Can't  finish  his  house  now,  and  Mr. 
Morris  is  just  wild  over  the  design.  It's  on  a  ledge 
of  rock  overlooking  the  lake,  and  the  whole  thing 
goes  together.  We've  got  the  roof  on,  and  from  across 
the  lake  it  looks  as  if  it  had  grown  there.  Mr.  Morris 

96 


PETER 

repeated  the  rock  forms  everywhere.  Stunning,  I  tell 
you!" 

Jack  didn't  want  any  high-ball,  and  said  so.  (Biffy 
didn't  care  if  he  did.)  The  boy's  mind  was  still  on  the 
scoop,  particularly  on  the  way  in  which  every  one  of 
his  fellow-members  had  spoken  of  the  incident. 

"Horrid  business,  all  of  it.  Don't  you  think  so, 
Garry?"  Jack  said  after  a  pause. 

"No,  not  if  you  keep  your  eyes  peeled,"  answered 
Garry,  emptying  his  glass.  "Never  saw  Gilbert  but 
once,  and  then  he  looked  to  me  like  a  softy  from  Pil- 
lowville.  Couldn't  fool  me,  I  tell  you,  on  a  deal  like 
that.  I'd  have  had  a  'stop  order'  somewhere.  Served 
Gilbert  right;  no  business  to  be  monkeying  with  a 
buzz-saw  unless  he  knew  how  to  throw  off  the  belt." 

Jack  straightened  his  shoulders  and  his  brows  knit. 
The  lines  of  the  portrait  were  in  the  lad's  face  now. 

"Well,  maybe  it's  all  right,  Garry.  My  own  opinion 
is  that  it's  no  better  than  swindling.  Anyway,  I'm 
mighty  glad  Uncle  Arthur  isn't  mixed  up  in  it.  You 
heard  what  Sam  and  the  other  fellows  thought,  didn't 
you  ?  How  would  you  like  to  have  that  said  of  you  ?" 

Garry  tossed  back  his  head  and  laughed. 

"Biffy,  are  you  listening  to  his  Reverence,  the 
Bishop  of  Cumberland  ?  Here  endeth  the  first  lesson." 

Biff  nodded  over  his  high-ball.  He  wasn't  listening 
— discussions  of  any  kind  bored  him. 

"  But  what  do  you  care,  Jack,  what  they  say — what 
anybody  says?"  continued  Garry.  "Keep  right  on. 
You  are  in  the  Street  to  make  money,  aren't  you? 

97 


PETER 

Everybody  else  is  there  for  the  same  purpose.  What 
goes  up  must  come  down.  If  you  don't  want  to  get 
your  head  smashed,  stand  from  under.  The  game  is 
to  jump  in,  grab  what  you  can,  and  jump  out,  dodging 
the  bricks  as  they  come.  Let's  go  up-town,  old  man." 

Neither  of  the  young  men  was  expressing  his  own 
views.  Both  were  too  young  and  too  inexperienced 
to  have  any  fixed  ideas  on  so  vital  a  subject. 

It  was  the  old  fellow  in  the  snuff-colored  coat,  black 
stock  and  dog-eared  collar  that  was  behind  Jack.  If 
he  were  alive  to-day  Jack's  view  would  have  been  his 
view,  and  that  was  the  reason  why  it  was  Jack's  view. 
The  boy  could  no  more  explain  it  than  he  could  prove 
why  his  eyes  were  brown  and  his  hair  a  dark  chestnut, 
or  why  he  always  walked  with  his  toes  very  much  turned 
out,  or  made  gestures  with  his  hands  when  he  talked. 
Had  any  of  the  jury  been  alive — and  some  of  them  were 
— or  the  prosecuting-attorney,  or  even  any  one  of  the 
old  settlers  who  attended  court,  they  could  have  told  in 
a  minute  which  one  of  the  two  young  men  was  Judge 
Breen's  son.  Not  that  Jack  looked  like  his  father. 
No  young  man  of  twenty-two  looks  like  an  old  fellow 
of  sixty,  but  he  certainly  moved  and  talked  like  him — 
and  had  the  same  way  of  looking  at  things.  "The 
written  law  may  uphold  you,  sir,  and  the  jury  may  so 
consider,  but  I  shall  instruct  them  to  disregard  your 
plea.  There  is  a  higher  law,  sir,  than  justice — a  law 
of  mercy —  That  I  myself  shall  exercise."  The  old 
Judge  had  sat  straight  up  on  his  bench  when  he  said 
it,  his  face  cast-iron,  his  eyes  burning.  The  jury 

98 


PETER 

brought  in  an  acquittal  without  leaving  their  seats. 
There  was  an  outbreak,  of  course,  but  the  man  went 
free.  This  young  offshoot  was  from  the  same  old 
stock,  that  was  all;  same  sap  in  his  veins,  same  twist 
to  his  branch;  same  bud,  same  blossom  and — same 
fruit. 

And  Garry! 

Not  many  years  have  elapsed  since  I  watched  him 
running  in  and  out  of  his  father's  spacious  drawing- 
rooms  on  Fourteenth  Street — the  court  end  of  town 
in  those  days.  In  the  days,  I  mean,  when  his  father 
was  Collector  of  the  Port,  and  his  father's  house  with 
its  high  ceilings,  mahogany  doors  and  wide  hall,  and 
the  great  dining-room  overlooking  a  garden  with  a 
stable  in  the  rear.  It  had  not  been  many  years,  I  say, 
since  the  Hon.  Creighton  Minott  had  thrown  wide  its 
doors  to  whoever  came — that  is,  whoever  came  properly 
accredited.  It  didn't  last  long,  of  course.  Politics 
changed;  the  "ins"  became  the  "outs."  And  with 
the  change  came  the  bridging-over  period — the  kind 
of  cantilever  which  hope  thrusts  out  from  one  side  of 
the  bank  of  the  swift-flowing  stream  of  adversity  in 
the  belief  that  somebody  on  the  other  side  of  the  chasm 
will  build  the  other  half,  and  the  two  form  a  highway 
leading  to  a  change  of  scene  and  renewed  prosperity. 

The  hospitable  Collector  continued  to  be  hospitable. 
He  had  always  taken  chances — he  would  again.  The 
catch-terms  of  Garry's  day,  such  as  "couldn't  fool  him," 
"keep  your  eye  peeled,"  "a  buzz-saw,"  etc.,  etc.,  were 
not  current  in  the  father's  day,  but  their  synonymns 

99 


PETER 

were.  He  knew  what  he  was  about.  As  soon  as  a 
particular  member  of  the  Board  got  back  from  the  other 
side  the  Honorable  Collector  would  have  the  position 
of  Treasurer,  and  then  it  was  only  a  question  of  time 
when  he  would  be  President  of  the  new  corporation. 
I  can  see  now  the  smile  that  lighted  up  his  rather 
handsome  face  when  he  told  me.  He  was  "  monkeying 
with  a  buzz-saw"  all  the  same  if  he  did  but  know  it,  and 
yet  he  always  professed  to  follow  the  metaphor  that 
he  could  "throw  off  the  belt"  that  drove  the  pulley  at 
his  own  good  pleasure  and  so  stop  the  connecting 
machinery  before  the  teeth  of  the  whirling  blade  could 
reach  his  fingers.  Should  it  get  beyond  his  control — 
of  which  there  was  not  the  remotest  possibility — he 
would,  of  course,  rent  his  house,  sell  his  books  and 
curtail.  "In  the  meantime,  my  dear  fellow,  there  is 
some  of  the  old  Madeira  left  and  a  game  of  whist  will 
only  help  to  drive  dull  care  away." 

Garry  never  whimpered  when  the  crash  came. 
The  dear  mother  died — how  patient  and  uncomplain- 
ing she  was  in  all  their  ups  and  downs — and  Garry 
was  all  that  was  left.  What  he  had  gained  since  in 
life  he  had  worked  for;  first  as  office  boy,  then  as 
draughtsman  and  then  in  charge  of  special  work,  earn- 
ing his  Chief's  approval,  as  the  Scribe  has  duly  set 
forth.  He  got  his  inheritance,  of  course.  Don't  we 
all  get  ours?  Sometimes  it  skips  a  generation — some- 
times two — but  generally  we  are  wearing  the  old  gentle- 
man's suit  of  clothes  cut  down  to  fit  our  small  bodies, 
making  believe  all  the  time  that  they  are  our  very  own, 

100 


PETER 

unconscious  of  the  discerning  eyes  who  recognize  their 
cut  and  origin. 

Nothing  tangible,  it  is  safe  to  say,  came  with  Garry's 
share  of  the  estate — and  he  got  it  all.  That  is,  nothing 
he  could  exchange  for  value  received — no  houses  or 
lots,  or  stocks  or  bonds.  It  was  the  intangible  that 
proved  his  richest  possession,  viz. : — a  certain  buoyancy 
of  spirits;  a  cheery,  optimistic  view  of  life;  a  winning 
personality  and  the  power  of  both  making  and  holding 
friends.  With  this  came  another  asset — the  willingness 
to  take  chances,  and  still  a  third — an  absolute  belief 
in  his  luck.  Down  at  the  bottom  of  the  box  littered 
with  old  papers,  unpaid  tax  bills  and  protested  notes — 
all  valueless — was  a  fourth  which  his  father  used  to 
fish  out  when  every  other  asset  failed— a  certain  confi- 
dence in  the  turn  of  a  card. 

But  the  virtues  and  the  peccadilloes  of  their  ancestors, 
we  may  be  sure,  were  not  interesting,  our  two  young 
men  as  they  swung  up  the  Avenue  arm  in  arm,  this 
particular  afternoon,  the  sidewalks  crowded  with  the 
fashion  of  the  day,  the  roadway  blocked  with  carriages. 
Nor  did  any  passing  objects  occupy  their  attention. 

Garry's  mind  was  on  Corinne,  and  what  he  would 
tell  her,  and  how  she  would  look  as  she  listened,  the 
pretty  head  tucked  on  one  side,  her  sparkling  eyes 
drinking  in  every  word  of  his  story,  although  he  knew 
she  wouldn't  believe  one-half  of  it.  Elusive  and 
irritating  as  she  sometimes  was,  there  was  really  nobody 
exactly  like  Miss  Corinne. 

Jack's  mind  had  resumed  its  normal  tone.  Garry's 
101 


PETER 

merry  laugh  and  good-natured  ridicule  had  helped,  so 
had  the  discovery  that  none  of  his  friends  had  had  any- 
thing to  do  with  Gilbert's  fall.  After  all,  he  said  to 
himself,  as  he  strode  up  the  street  beside  his  friend,  it 
was  "none  of  his  funeral,"  none  of  his  business,  really. 
Such  things  went  on  every  day  and  in  every  part  of  the 
world.  Neither  was  it  his  Uncle  Arthur's.  That  was 
the  most  comforting  part  of  all. 

Corinne's  voice  calling  over  the  banisters:  "Is  that 
you,  Jack?"  met  the  two  young  men  as  they  handed 
their  hats  to  the  noiseless  Frederick.  Both  craned  their 
necks  and  caught  sight  of  the  Wren's  head  framed 
by  the  hand-rail  and  in  silhouette  against  the  oval  sky- 
light in  the  roof  above. 

"Yes,  and  Garry's  here,  too.     Come  down." 

The  patter  of  little  feet  grew  louder,  then  the  swish 
of  silken  skirts,  and  with  a  spring  she  was  beside  them. 

"No,  don't  you  say  a  word,  Garry.  I'm  not  going 
to  listen  and  I  won't  forgive  you  no  matter  what  you 
say."  She  had  both  of  his  hands  now. 

"Ah,  but  you  don't  know,  Miss  Corinne.  Has 
Jack  told  you?" 

"Yes,  told  me  everything;  that  you  had  a  big  supper 
and  everybody  stamped  around  the  room;  that  Mr. 
Morris  gave  you  a  ring,  or  something"  (Garry  held  up 
his  ringer,  but  she  wasn't  ready  to  examine  it  yet), 
"and  that  some  of  the  men  wanted  to  celebrate  it, 
and  that  you  went  to  the  club  and  stayed  there  good- 
ness knows  how  long — all  night,  so  Mollie  Crane  told 
me.  Paul,  her  brother,  was  there — and  you  never 

102 


PETER 

thought  a  word  about  your  promise  to  me"  (this  came 
with  a  little  pout,  her  chin  uplifted,  her  lips  quite  near 
his  face),  "and  we  didn't  have  half  men  enough  and 
our  cotillion  was  all  spoiled.  I  don't  care — we  had  a 
lovely  time,  even  if  you  two  men  did  behave  disgrace- 
fully. No — I  don't  want  to  listen  to  a  thing.  I  didn't 
come  down  to  see  either  of  you.  (She  had  watched 
them  both  from  her  window  as  they  crossed  the  street.) 
"  What  I  want  to  know,  Jack,  is,  who  is  Miss  Felicia 
Grayson?" 

"Why,  Mr.  Grayson's  sister,"  burst  out  Jack — "the 
old  gentleman  who  came  to  see  me." 

"That  old  fellow!" 

"Yes,  that  old  fellow — the  most  charming " 

"Not  that  remnant!"  interrupted  Garry. 

"No,  Garry — not  that  kind  of  a  man  at  all,  but 
a  most  delightful  old  gentleman  by  the  name  of  Mr. 
Grayson,"  and  Jack's  eyes  flashed.  "He  told  me  his 
sister  was  coming  to  town.  What  do  you  know  about 
her,  Corinne?"  He  was  all  excitement:  Peter  was  to 
send  for  him  when  his  sister  arrived. 

"Nothing — that's  why  I  ask  you.  I've  just  got  a 
note  from  her.  She  says  she  knew  mamma  when  she 
lived  in  Washington,  and  that  her  brother  has  fallen 
in  love  with  you,  and  that  she  won't  have  another  happy 
moment — or  something  like  that — if  you  and  I  don't 
come  to  a  tea  she  is  giving  to  a  Miss  Ruth  MacFarlane; 
and  that  I  am  to  give  her  love  to  mamma,  and  bring 
anybody  I  please  with  me." 

"  When  ?  "  asked  Jack.  He  could  hardly  restrain  his  joy. 
103 


PETER 

"I  think  next  Saturday — yes,  next  Saturday,"  con- 
sulting the  letter  in  her  hand. 

"Where?    At  Mr.  Grayson's  rooms?"  cried  Jack. 

"Yes,  at  her  brother's,  she  says.  Here,  Jack — you 
read  it.  Some  number  in  East  Fifteenth  Street — 
queer  place  for  people  to  live,  isn't  it,  Garry  ? — people 
who  want  anybody  to  come  to  their  teas.  I've  got  a 
dressmaker  lives  over  there  somewhere;  she's  in 
Fifteenth  Street,  anyhow,  for  I  always  drive  there." 

Jack  devoured  the  letter.  This  was  what  he  had 
been  hoping  for.  He  knew  the  old  gentleman  would 
keep  his  word! 

"Well,  of  course  you'll  go,  Corinne?"  he  cried 
eagerly. 

"Of  course  I'll  do  nothing  of  the  kind.  I  think  it's 
a  great  piece  of  impudence.  I've  never  heard  of  her. 
Because  you  had  her  brother  upstairs,  that's  no  reason 
why —  But  that's  just  like  these  people.  You  give 
them  an  inch  and " 

Jack's  cheeks  flushed:  "But,  Corinne!  She's  of- 
fered you  a  courtesy — asked  you  to  her  house,  and — 

"I  don't  care;  I'm  not  going!  Would  you, 
Garry?" 

The  son  of  the  Collector  hesitated  for  a  moment. 
He  had  his  own  ideas  of  getting  on  in  the  world.  They 
were  not  Jack's — his,  he  knew,  would  never  succeed. 
And  they  were  not  exactly  Corinne's — she  was  too 
particular.  The  fence  was  evidently  the  best  place 
for  him. 

"Would  be  rather  a  bore,  wouldn't  it?"  he  replied 
104 


PETER 

evasively,  with  a  laugh.  "Lives  up  under  the  roof, 
I  guess,  wears  a  dyed  wig,  got  Cousin  Mary  Ann's 
daguerreotype  on  the  mantle,  and  tells  you  how  Uncle 
Ephraim " 

The  door  opened  and  Jack's  aunt  swept  in.  She 
never  walked,  or  ambled,  or  stepped  jauntily,  or 
firmly,  or  as  if  she  wanted  to  get  anywhere  in  particu- 
lar; she  swept  in,  her  skirts  following  meekly  behind 
— half  a  yard  behind,  sometimes. 

Corinne  launched  the  inquiry  at  her  mother,  even 
before  she  could  return  Garry's  handshake.  "Who's 
Miss  Grayson,  rnamma?" 

"  I  don't  know.     Why,  my  child  ?" 

"Well,  she  says  she  knows  you.  Met  you  in  WTash- 
ington." 

"The  only  Miss  Grayson  I  ever  met  in  Washington, 
my  dear,  was  an  old  maid,  the  niece  of  the  Secretary 
of  State.  She  kept  house  for  him  after  his  wife  died. 
She  held  herself  very  high,  let  me  tell  you.  A  very 
grand  lady,  indeed.  But  she  must  be  an  old  woman 
now,  if  she  is  still  living.  What  did  you  say  her  first 
name  was?" 

Corinne  took  the  open  letter  from  Jack's  hand. 
"Felicia.  .  .  .  Yes,  Felicia." 

"And  what  does  she  want? — money  for  some  char- 
ity?" Almost  everybody  she  knew,  and  some  she  didn't, 
wanted  money  for  some  charity.  She  was  loosening 
her  cloak  as  she  spoke,  Frederick  standing  by  to  relieve 
my  lady  of  her  wraps. 

"No;  she's  going  to  give  a  tea  and  wants  us  all  to 
105 


PETER 

come.  She's  the  sister  of  that  old  man  who  came 
to  see  Jack  the  other  night,  and " 

"Going  to  give  a  tea! — and  the  sister  of—  Well, 
then,  she  certainly  isn't  the  Miss  Grayson  I  know. 
Don't  you  answer  her,  Corinne,  until  I  find  out  who 
she  is." 

"I'll  tell  you  who  she  is,"  burst  out  Jack.  His 
face  was  aflame  now.  Never  had  he  listened  to  such 
discourtesy.  He  could  hardly  believe  his  ears. 

"It  wouldn't  help  me  in  the  least,  my  dear  Jack; 
so  don't  you  begin.  I  am  the  best  judge  of  who  shall 
come  to  my  house.  She  may  be  all  right,  and  she  may 
not,  you  can  never  tell  in  a  city  like  New  York,  and 
you  can't  be  too  particular.  People  really  do  such 
curious  pushing  things  now-a-days."  This  to  Garry. 
"Now  serve  tea,  Parkins.  Come  in  all  of  you." 

Jack  was  on  the  point  of  blazing  out  in  indignation 
over  the  false  position  in  which  his  friend  had  been 
placed  when  Peter's  warning  voice  rang  in  his  ears. 
The  vulgarity  of  the  whole  proceeding  appalled  him, 
yet  he  kept  control  of  himself. 

"None  for  me,  please,  aunty,"  he  said  quietly. 
"I  will  join  you  later,  Garry,"  and  he  mounted  the 
stairs  to  his  room. 


106 


CHAPTER  VIII 

Peter  was  up  and  dressed  when  Miss  Felicia  arrived, 
despite  the  early  hour.  Indeed  that  gay  cavalier  was 
the  first  to  help  the  dear  lady  off  with  her  travelling 
cloak  and  bonnet,  Mrs.  McGuffey  folding  her  veil, 
smoothing  out  her  gloves  and  laying  them  all  upon 
the  bed  in  the  adjoining  room — the  one  she  kept  in 
prime  order  for  Miss  Grayson's  use. 

The  old  fellow  was  facing  the  coffee-urn  when  he  told 
her  Jack's  story  and  what  he  himself  had  said  in  reply, 
and  how  fine  the  boy  was  in  his  beliefs,  and  how  well- 
nigh  impossible  it  was  for  him  to  help  him,  consider- 
ing his  environment. 

The  dear  lady  had  listened  with  her  eyes  fixed  on 
Peter.  It  was  but  another  of  his  benevolent  finds; 
it  had  been  the  son  of  an  old  music  teacher  the  winter 
before,  and  a  boy  struggling  through  college  last 
spring; — always  somebody  who  wanted  to  get  ahead 
in  one  direction  or  another,  no  matter  how  impracti- 
cable his  ambitions  might  be.  This  young  man,  how- 
ever, seemed  different;  certain  remarks  had  a  true 
ring.  Perhaps,  after  all,  her  foolish  old  brother — 
foolish  when  his  heart  misled  him — might  have  found 
somebody  at  last  who  would  pay  for  the  time  he  spent 

107 


PETER 

upon  him.  The  name,  too,  had  a  familiar  sound. 
She  was  quite  sure  the  aunt  must  be  the  same  rather 
over-dressed  persistent  young  widow  who  had  flitted 
in  and  out  of  Washington  society  the  last  year  of  her 
own  stay  in  the  capital.  She  had  finally  married  a 
rich  New  York  man  of  the  same  name.  So  she  had 
heard. 

The  tea  to  which  Jack  and  Corinne  were  invited 
was  the  result  of  this  conversation.  Trust  Miss  Felicia 
for  doing  the  right  thing  and  in  the  right  way,  whatever 
her  underlying  purpose  might  be;  and  then  again  she 
must  look  this  new  protege  over. 

Peter  at  once  joined  in  the  project.  Nothing 
pleased  him  so  much  as  a  function  of  any  kind  in 
which  his  dear  sister  was  the  centre  of  attraction,  and 
this  was  always  the  case.  Was  not  Mrs.  McGuffey 
put  to  it,  at  these  same  teas,  to  know  what  to  do  with 
the  hats  and  coats,  and  the  long  and  short  cloaks  and 
overshoes,  and  lots  of  other  things  beside — umbrellas 
and  the  like — whenever  Miss  Felicia  came  to  town? 
And  did  not  the  good  woman  have  many  of  the  cards 
of  the  former  function  hidden  in  her  bureau  drawer 
to  show  her  curious  friends  just  how  grand  a  lady 
Miss  Felicia  was?  General  Waterbury, U.  S.  A.,  com- 
manding the  Department  of  the  East,  with  head- 
quarters at  Governors  Island,  was  one  of  them.  And 
so  were  Colonel  Edgerton,  Judge  Lambert  and  Mrs. 
Lambert;  and  His  Excellency  the  French  Ambassador, 
whom  she  had  known  as  an  attache  and  who  was 
passing  through  the  city  and  had  been  overjoyed  to 

108 


PETER 

leave  a  card ;  as  well  as  Sir  Anthony  Broadstairs,  who 
expected  to  spend  a  week  with  her  in  her  quaint  home 
in  Geneseo,  but  who  had  made  it  convenient  to  pay 
his  respects  in  Fifteenth  Street  instead;  to  say  nothing 
of  the  Coleridges,  Thomases,  Bordeauxs  and  Worthing- 
tons,  besides  any  number  of  people  from  Washington 
Square,  with  plenty  more  from  Murray  Hill  and  be- 
yond. 

Peter  in  his  enthusiasm  had  made  a  mental  picture 
of  a  repetition  of  all  this  and  had  already  voiced  it  in 
the  suggestion  of  these  and  various  other  prominent 
names,  when  Miss  Felicia  stopped  him  with: 

"  No,  Peter — No.  It's  not  to  be  a  museum  of  fossils, 
but  a  garden  full  of  rosebuds;  nobody  with  a  strand  of 
gray  hair  will  be  invited.  As  for  the  lame,  the  halt 
and  the  blind,  they  can  come  next  week.  Fve  just 
been  looking  you  over,  Peter;  you  are  getting  old 
and  wrinkled  and  pretty  soon  you'll  be  as  cranky  as 
the  rest  of  them,  and  there  will  be  no  living  with  you. 
The  Major,  who  is  half  your  age" — I  had  come  early, 
as  was  my  custom,  to  pay  my  respects  to  the  dear 
woman — "is  no  better.  You  are  both  of  you  getting 
into  a  rut.  What  you  want  is  some  young  blood 
pumped  into  your  shrivelled  veins.  I  am  going  to 
hunt  up  every  girl  I  know  and  all  the  boys,  including 
that  young  Breen  you  are  so  wild  over,  and  then  I'll 
send  for  dear  Ruth  MacFarlane,  who  has  just  come 
North  with  her  father  to  live,  and  who  doesn't  know 
a  soul,  and  nobody  over  twenty-five  is  to  be  admitted. 
So  if  you  and  the  Major  want  to  come  to  Ruth's  tea — 

109 


PETER 

Ruth's,  remember;  not  yours  or  the  Major's,  or  mine — 
you  will  either  have  to  pass  the  cake  or  take  the  gentle- 
men's hats.  Do  you  hear?" 

We  heard,  and  we  heard  her  laugh  as  she  spoke, 
raising  her  gold  lorgnon  to  her  eyes  and  gazing  at  us 
with  that  half-quizzical  look  which  so  often  comes 
over  her  face. 

She  was  older  than  Peter — must  have  been:  I 
never  knew  exactly.  It  would  not  have  been  wise  to 
ask  her,  and  nobody  else  knew  but  Peter,  and  he 
never  told.  And  yet  there  was  no  mark  of  real  old 
age  upon  her.  She  and  Peter  were  alike  in  this. 
Her  hair,  worn  Pompadour,  was  gray — an  honest 
black-and-white  gray;  her  eyes  were  bright  as  needle 
points;  the  skin  slightly  wrinkled,  but  fresh  and  rosy 
— a  spare,  straight,  well-groomed  old  lady  of — perhaps 
sixty — perhaps  sixty-five,  depending  on  her  dress,  or 
undress,  for  her  shoulders  were  still  full  and  well 
rounded.  "The  most  beautiful  neck  and  throat,  sir, 
in  all  Washington  in  her  day,"  old  General  Waterbury 
once  told  me,  and  the  General  was  an  authority. 
"You  should  have  seen  her  in  her  prime,  sir.  What 
the  devil  the  men  were  thinking  of  I  don't  know,  but 
they  let  her  go  back  to  Geneseo,  and  there  she  has 
lived  ever  since.  Why,  sir,  at  a  ball  at  the  German 
Embassy  she  made  such  a  sensation  that — "  but  then 
the  General  always  tells  such  stories  of  most  of  the 
women  he  knows. 

There  was  but  little  left  of  that  kind  of  beauty. 
She  had  kept  her  figure,  it  is  true — a  graceful,  easy- 

110 


PETER 

moving  figure,  with  the  waist  of  a  girl;  well-propor- 
tioned arms  and  small,  dainty  hands.  She  had  kept, 
too,  her  charm  of  manner  and  keen  sense  of  humor — 
she  wouldn't  have  been  Peter's  sister  otherwise — as 
well  as  her  interest  in  her  friends'  affairs,  especially 
the  love-affairs  of  all  the  young  people  about  her. 

Her  knowledge  of  men  and  women  had  broad- 
ened. She  read  them  more  easily  now  than  when 
she  was  a  girl — had  suffered,  perhaps,  by  trusting 
them  too  much.  This  had  sharpened  the  tip  end  of 
her  tongue  to  so  fine  a  point  that  when  it  became 
active — and  once  in  a  while  it  did — it  could  rip  a  sham 
reputation  up  the  back  as  easily  as  a  keen  blade  loosens 
the  seams  of  a  bodice. 

Peter  fell  in  at  once  with  her  plan  for  a  "Rosebud 
Tea,"  in  spite  of  her  raillery  and  the  threatened  possi- 
bility of  our  exclusion,  promising  not  only  to  assist 
her  with  the  invitations,  but  to  be  more  than  careful 
at  the  Bank  in  avoiding  serious  mistakes  in  his  balances 
— so  as  to  be  on  hand  promptly  at  four.  Moreover, 
if  Jack  had  a  sweetheart — and  there  was  no  question 
of  it,  or  ought  not  to  be — and  Corinne  had  another, 
what  would  be  better  than  bringing  them  all  down 
together,  so  that  Miss  Felicia  could  look  them  over, 
and  Miss  Ruth  and  the  Major  could  get  better  ac- 
quainted, especially  Jack  and  Miss  Felicia;  and 
more  especially  Jack  and  himself. 

Miss  Felicia's  proposal  having  therefore  been  duly 
carried  out,  with  a  number  of  others  not  thought  of 
when  the  tea  was  first  discussed — including  some  pots 

111 


PETER 

of  geraniums  in  the  window,  red,  of  course,  to  match 
the  color  of  Peter's  room — and  the  freshening  up  of 
certain  swiss  curtains  which  so  offended  Miss  Felicia's 
ever-watchful  eyes  that  she  burst  out  with:  "It  is 
positively  disgraceful,  Peter,  to  see  how  careless  you 
are  getting — "  At  which  Mrs.  McGuffey  blushed  to 
the  roots  of  her  hair,  and  washed  them  herself  that  very 
night  before  she  closed  her  eyes.  The  great  day 
having  arrived,  I  say  the  tea-table  was  set  with  Peter's 
best,  including  "the  dearest  of  silver  teapots"  that  Miss 
Felicia  had  given  him  for  special  occasions;  the  table 
covered  with  a  damask  cloth  and  all  made  ready  for 
the  arrival  of  her  guests.  This  done,  the  lady  re- 
turned to  her  own  room,  from  which  she  emerged  an 
hour  later  in  a  soft  gray  silk  relieved  by  a  film  of  old 
lace  at  her  throat,  blending  into  the  tones  of  her  gray 
hair  brushed  straight  up  from  her  forehead  and  worn 
high  over  a  cushion,  the  whole  topped  by  a  tiny  jewel 
which  caught  the  light  like  a  drop  of  dew. 

And  a  veritable  grand  dame  she  looked,  and  was, 
as  she  took  her  seat  and  awaited  the  arrival  of  her 
guests — in  bearing,  in  the  way  she  moved  her  head; 
in  the  way  she  opened  her  fan — in  the  selection  of  the 
fan  itself,  for  that  matter.  You  felt  it  in  the  color 
and  length  of  her  gloves;  the  size  of  her  pearl  ear- 
rings (not  too  large,  and  yet  not  too  small),  in  the 
choice  of  the  few  rings  that  encircled  her  slender  and 
now  somewhat  shrunken  fingers  (one  hoop  of  gold  had 
a  history  that  the  old  French  Ambassador  could  have 
told  if  he  wanted  to,  so  Peter  once  hinted  to  me) — 

112 


PETER 

everything  she  did  in  fact  betrayed  a  wide  acquaintance 
with  the  great  world  and  its  requirements  and  exactions. 

Other  women  of  her  age  might  of  their  choice  drop 
into  charities,  or  cats,  or  nephews  and  nieces,  railing 
against  the  present  and  living  only  in  the  past;  holding 
on  like  grim  death  to  everything  that  made  it  respect- 
able, so  that  they  looked  for  all  the  world  like  so  many 
old  daguerreotypes  pulled  from  the  frames.  Not  so 
Miss  Felicia  Grayson  of  Geneseo,  New  York.  Her 
past  was  a  flexible,  india-rubber  kind  of  a  past  that 
she  stretched  out  after  her.  She  might  still  wear  her 
hair  as  she  did  when  the  old  General  raved  over  her, 
although  the  frost  of  many  winters  had  touched  it;  but 
she  would  never  hold  on  to  the  sleeves  of  those  days 
or  the  skirts  or  the  mantles:  Out  or  in  they  must  go, 
be  puffed,  cut  bias,  or  made  plain,  just  as  the  fashion 
of  the  day  insisted.  Oh!  a  most  level-headed,  com- 
mon-sense, old  aristocrat  was  Dame  Felicia! 

With  the  arrival  of  the  first  carriage  old  Isaac  Cohen 
moved  his  seat  from  the  back  to  the  front  of  his  shop, 
so  he  could  see  everybody  who  got  out  and  went  in,  as 
well  as  everybody  who  walked  past  and  gazed  up  at 
the  shabby  old  house  and  its  shabbier  steps  and  rail- 
ings. Not  that  the  shabby  surroundings  ever  made 
any  difference  whether  the  guests  were  "carriage 
company"  or  not,  to  quote  good  Mrs.  McGuffey. 
Peter  would  not  be  Peter  if  he  lived  anywhere  else, 
and  Miss  Felicia  wouldn't  be  half  so  quaint  and 
charming  if  she  had  received  her  guests  behind  a 
marble  or  brownstone  front  with  an  awning  stretched 

113 


PETER 

to  the  curbstone  and  a  red  velvet  carpet  laid  across 
the  sidewalk,  the  whole  patrolled  by  a  bluecoat  and 
two  hired  men. 

The  little  tailor  had  watched  many  such  functions 
before.  So  had  the  neighbors,  who  were  craning  their 
heads  from  the  windows.  They  all  knew  by  the  car- 
riages when  Miss  Felicia  came  to  town  and  when 
she  left,  and  by  the  same  token  for  that  matter.  The 
only  difference  between  this  reception  and  former  recep- 
tions, or  teas,  or  whatever  the  great  people  up-stairs 
called  them,  was  in  the  ages  of  the  guests;  not  any 
gray  whiskers  and  white  heads  under  high  silk  hats, 
this  time;  nor  any  demure  or  pompous,  or  gentle,  or, 
perhaps,  faded  old  ladies  puffing  up  Peter's  stairs — 
and  they  did  puff  before  they  reached  his  door,  where 
they  handed  their  wraps  to  Mrs.  McGuffey  in  her 
brave  white  cap  and  braver  white  apron.  Only 
bright  eyes  and  rosy  faces  to-day  framed  in  tiny  bon- 
nets, and  well-groomed  young  fellows  in  white  scarfs 
and  black  coats. 

But  if  anybody  had  thought  of  the  shabby  sur- 
roundings they  forgot  all  about  it  when  they  mounted 
the  third  flight  of  stairs  and  looked  in  the  door.  Not 
only  was  Peter's  bedroom  full  of  outer  garments, 
and  Miss  Felicia's,  too,  for  that  matter — but  the  ban- 
isters looked  like  a  clothes-shop  undergoing  a  spring 
cleaning,  so  thickly  were  the  coats  slung  over  its  hand- 
rail. So,  too,  were  the  hall,  and  the  hall  chairs,  and 
the  gas  bracket,  and  even  the  hooks  where  Peter  hung 
his  clothes  to  be  brushed  in  the  morning — every  con- 

114 


PETER 

ceivable  place,  in  fact,  wherever  an  outer  wrap  of 
any  kind  could  be  suspended,  poked,  or  laid  flat. 
That  Mrs.  McGuffey  was  at  her  wits'  end — only  a 
short  walk — was  evident  from  the  way  she  grabbed 
my  hat  and  coat  and  disappeared  through  a  door 
which  led  to  her  own  apartments,  returning  a.  mo- 
ment later  out  of  breath  and,  I  fancied,  a  little  out  of 
temper. 

And  that  was  nothing  to  the  way  in  which  the  owners 
of  all  these  several  habiliments  were  wedged  inside. 
First  came  the  dome  of  Peter's  bald  head  surmounting 
his  merry  face,  then  the  top  of  Miss  Felicia's  pompa- 
dour, with  its  tiny  diamond  spark  bobbing  about  as 
she  laughed  and  moved  her  head  in  saluting  her  guests, 
and  then  mobs  and  mobs  of  young  people  packed 
tight,  looking  for  all  the  world  like  a  matine'e  crowd 
leaving  a  theatre  (that  is  when  you  crane  your  neck 
to  see  over  their  heads),  except  that  the  guests  were 
without  their  wraps  and  were  talking  sixteen  to  the 
dozen,  and  as  merry  as  they  could  be. 

"They  are  all  here,  Major,"  Peter  cried,  dragging 
me  inside.  It  was  wonderful  how  young  and  happy 
he  looked.  "Miss  Corinne,  and  that  loud  Hullaballoo, 
Garry  Minott,  we  saw  prancing  around  at  the  supper — 
you  remember — Holker  gave  him  the  ring." 

"And  Miss  MacFarlane?"  I  asked. 

"Ruth!  Turn  your  head,  my  boy,  and  take  a  look 
at  her.  Isn't  she  a  picture  ?  Did  you  ever  see  a  pret- 
tier girl  in  all  your  life,  and  one  more  charmingly 
dressed?  Ruth,  this  is  the  Major  .  .  .  nothing  else 

115 


PETER 

.  .  .  just  the  Major.     He  is  perfectly  docile,  kind  and 
safe,  and— 

— And  drives  equally  well  in  single  or  double 
harness,  I  suppose,"  laughed  the  girl,  extending  her 
hand  and  giving  me  the  slightest  dip  of  her  head  and 
bend  of  her  back  in  recognition,  no  doubt,  of  my  ad- 
vancing years  and  dignified  bearing — in  apology,  too, 
perhaps,  for  her  metaphor. 

"In  single — not  double,"  rejoined  Peter.  "He's  the 
sourest,  crabbedest  old  bachelor  in  the  world — except 
myself." 

Again  her  laugh  bubbled  out — a  catching,  sponta- 
neous kind  of  laugh,  as  if  there  were  plenty  more  packed 
away  behind  her  lips  ready  to  break  loose  whenever 
they  found  an  opening. 

' '  Then,  Major,  you  shall  have  two  lumps  to  sweeten  you 
up,"  and  down  went  the  sugar-tongs  into  the  silver  bowl. 

Here  young  Breen  leaned  forward  and  lifted  the 
bowl  nearer  to  her  hand,  while  I  waited  for  my  cup. 
He  had  not  left  her  side  since  Miss  Felicia  had  pre- 
sented him,  so  Peter  told  me  afterward.  I  had 
evidently  interrupted  a  conversation,  for  his  eyes  were 
still  fastened  upon  hers,  drinking  in  her  every  word 
and  movement. 

"And  is  sugar  your  cure  for  disagreeable  people, 
Miss  MacFarlane?"  I  heard  him  ask  under  his  breath 
as  I  stood  sipping  my  tea. 

"That  depends  on  how  disagreeable  they  are," 
she  answered.  This  came  with  a  look  from  beneath 
her  eyelids. 

116 


PETER 

"  I  must  be  all  right,  then,  for  you  only  gave  me  one 
lump — "  still  under  his  breath. 

"Only  one!  I  made  a  mistake — "  Eyes  looking 
straight  into  Jack's,  with  a  merry  twinkle  gathering 
around  their  corners. 

"Perhaps  I  don't  need  any  at  all." 

"Yes,  I'm  sure  you  do.  Here — hold  your  cup,  sir; 
I'll  fill  it  full." 

"No,  I'm  going  to  wait  and  see  what  effect  one 
lump  has.  I'm  beginning  to  get  pleasant  already — 
and  I  was  cross  as  two  sticks  when  I " 

And  then  she  insisted  he  should  have  at  least  three 
more  to  make  him  at  all  bearable,  and  he  said  there 
would  be  no  living  with  him  he  would  be  so  charming 
and  agreeable,  and  so  the  talk  ran  on,  the  battledoor 
and  shuttlecock  kind  of  talk — the  same  prattle  that 
we  have  all  listened  to  dozens  of  times,  or  should  have 
listened  to,  to  have  kept  our  hearts  young.  And  yet 
not  a  talk  at  all;  a  play,  rather,  in  which  words  count 
for  little  and  the  action  is  everything:  Listening  to 
the  toss  of  a  curl  or  the  lowering  of  an  eyelid;  answer- 
ing with  a  lift  of  the  hand — such  a  strong  brown  hand, 
that  could  pull  an  oar,  perhaps,  or  help  her  over  dan- 
gerous places!  Then  her  white  teeth,  and  the  way 
the  head  bent;  and  then  his  ears  and  how  close  they 
lay  to  his  head;  and  the  short,  glossy  hair  with  the 
faintest  bit  of  a  curl  in  it.  And  then  the  sudden 
awakening:  Oh,  yes — it  was  the  sugar  Mr.  Breen 
wanted,  of  course.  What  was  I  thinking  of? 

And  so  the  game  went  on,  neither  of  them  caring 
117 


PETER 

where  the  ball  went  so  that  it  could  be  hit  again  when 
it  came  their  way. 

When  it  was  about  to  stay  its  flight  I  ventured  in 
with  the  remark  that  she  must  not  forget  to  give  my 
kindest  and  best  to  her  good  father.  I  think  she  had 
forgotten  I  was  standing  so  near. 

"And  you  know  daddy!"  she  cried — the  real  girl 
was  shining  in  her  eyes  now — all  the  coquetry  had 
vanished  from  her  face. 

"Yes — we  worked  together  on  the  piers  of  the  big 
bridge  over  the  Delaware;  oh,  long  ago." 

"Isn't  he  the  very  dearest?  He  promised  to  come 
here  to-day,  but  I  know  he  won't.  Poor  daddy,  he 
gets  home  so  tired  sometimes.  He  has  just  started 
on  the  big  tunnel  and  there  is  so  much  to  do.  I  have 
been  helping  him  with  his  papers  every  night.  But 
when  Aunt  Felicia's  note  came — she  isn't  my  real  aunt, 
you  know,  but  I  have  called  her  so  ever  since  I  was  a 
little  girl — daddy  insisted  on  my  coming,  and  so  I 
have  left  him  for  just  a  few  days.  He  will  be  so  glad 
when  I  tell  him  I  have  met  one  of  his  old  friends." 

There  was  no  question  of  her  beauty,  or  poise,  or 
her  naturalness. 

"Been  a  lady  all  her  life,  my  dear  Major,  and  her 
mother  before  her,"  Miss  Felicia  said  when  I  joined 
her  afterward,  and  Miss  Felicia  knew.  "She  is  not 
like  any  of  the  young  girls  about,  as  you  can  see  for 
yourself.  Look  at  her  now,"  she  whispered,  with  an 
approving  nod  of  her  head. 

Again  my  eyes  sought  the  girl.  The  figure  was 
118 


PETER 

willowy  and  graceful;  the  shoulders  sloping,  the  arms 
tapering  to  the  wrists.  The  hair  was  jet  black — 
"Some  Spanish  blood  somewhere,"  I  suggested,  but 
the  dear  lady  answered  sharply,  "Not  a  drop;  French 
Huguenot,  my  dear  Major,  and  I  am  surprised  you 
should  have  made  such  a  mistake."  This  black  hair 
parted  in  the  middle,  lay  close  to  her  head — such  a 
wealth  and  torrent  of  it;  even  with  tucking  it  behind 
her  ears  and  gathering  it  in  a  coil  in  her  neck  it  seemed 
just  ready  to  fall.  The  face  was  oval,  the  nose  perfect, 
the  mouth  never  still  for  an  instant,  so  full  was  it  of 
curves  and  twinkles  and  little  quivers;  the  eyes  big, 
absorbing,  restful,  with  lazy  lids  that  lifted  slowly 
and  lay  motionless  as  the  wings  of  a  resting  but- 
terfly, the  eyebrows  full  and  exquisitely  arched. 
Had  you  met  her  in  mantilla  and  high-heeled  shoes, 
her  fan  half  shading  her  face,  you  would  have  de- 
clared, despite  Miss  Felicia's  protest,  that  only  the 
click  of  the  castanets  was  needed  to  send  her  whirl- 
ing to  their  rhythm.  Had  she  tied  that  same  man- 
tilla close  under  her  lovely  chin,  and  passed  you  with 
upturned  eyes  and  trembling  lips,  you  would  have 
sworn  that  the  Madonna  from  the  neighboring 
church  had  strayed  from  its  frame  in  search  of  the 
helpless  and  the  unhappy;  and  had  none  of  these  dis- 
guises been  hers,  and  she  had  flashed  by  you  in  the 
open  some  bright  morning  mounted  on  her  own  black 
mare,  face  aglow,  eyes  like  stars,  her  wonderful  hair 
waving  in  the  wind,  you  would  have  stood  stock-still 
in  admiration,  fear  gripping  your  throat,  a  prayer  in 

119 


PETER 

your  heart  for  the  safe  home-coming  of  one  so  fearless 
and  so  beautiful. 

There  was,  too,  about  her  a  certain  gentleness,  a 
certain  disposition  to  be  kind,  even  when  her  inherent 
coquetry — natural  in  the  Southern  girl — led  her  into 
deep  waters;  a  certain  tenderness  that  made  friends 
of  even  unhappy  suitors  (and  I  heard  that  she  could  not 
count  them  on  her  fingers)  who  had  asked  for  more 
than  she  could  give — a  tenderness  which  healed  the 
wound  and  made  lovers  of  them  all  for  life. 

And  then  her  Southern  speech,  indescribable  and 
impossible  in  cold  type.  The  softening  of  the  conso- 
nants, the  slipping  away  of  the  terminals,  the  slurring 
of  vowels,  and  all  in  that  low,  musical  voice  born  out- 
side of  the  roar  and  crash  of  city  streets  and  crowded 
drawing-rooms  with  each  tongue  fighting  for  mastery. 

All  this  Jack  had  taken  in,  besides  a  thousand  other 
charms  visible  only  to  the  young  enthusiast,  before 
he  had  been  two  minutes  in  her  presence.  As  to  her 
voice,  he  knew  she  was  one  of  his  own  people  when 
she  had  finished  pronouncing  his  name.  Somebody 
worth  while  had  crossed  his  path  at  last! 

And  with  this  there  had  followed,  even  as  he  talked 
to  her,  the  usual  comparisons  made  by  all  young 
fellows  when  the  girl  they  don't  like  is  placed  side  by 
side  with  the  girl  they  do.  Miss  MacFarlane  was 
tall  and  Corinne  was  short;  Miss  MacFarlane  was 
dark,  and  he  adored  dark,  handsome  people — and 
Corinne  was  light;  Miss  MacFarlane's  voice  was  low 
and  soft,  her  movements  slow  and  graceful,  her  speech 

120 


PETER 

gentle — as  if  she  were  afraid  she  might  hurt  some  one 
inadvertently;  her  hair  and  dress  were  simple  to  sever- 
ity. While  Corinne — well,  in  every  one  of  these 
details  Corinne  represented  the  exact  opposite.  It  was 
the  blood!  Yes,  that  was  it — it  was  her  blood!  Who 
was  she,  and  where  did  she  come  from?  Would 
Corinne  like  her?  What  impression  would  this  high- 
bred Southern  beauty  make  upon  the  pert  Miss  Wren, 
whose  little  nose  had  gone  down  a  point  or  two  when 
her  mother  had  discovered,  much  to  her  joy,  the  week 
before,  that  it  was  the  real  Miss  Grayson  and  not  an 
imitation  Miss  Grayson  who  had  been  good  enough 
to  invite  her  daughter  and  any  of  her  daughter's 
friends  to  tea;  and  it  had  fallen  another  point  when 
she  learned  that  Miss  Felicia  had  left  her  card  the 
next  day,  expressing  to  the  potato-bug  how  sorry  she 
was  to  hear  that  the  ladies  were  out,  but  that  she  hoped 
it  would  only  be  a  matter  of  a  few  days  before  "she 
would  welcome  them"  to  her  own  apartments,  or 
words  to  that  effect,  Frederick's  memory  being  slightly 
defective. 

It  was  in  answer  to  this  request  that  Mrs.  Breen, 
after  consulting  her  husband,  had  written  three  accept- 
ances before  she  was  willing  that  Frederick  should  leave 
it  with  his  own  hands  in  Fifteenth  Street — one  begin- 
ning, "It  certainly  is  a  pleasure  after  all  these  years" 
— which  was  discarded  as  being  too  familiar;  another, 
"So  good  of  you,  dear  Miss  Grayson,"  which  had  a 
similar  fate;  and  the  third,  which  ran,  "My  daughter 
will  be  most  happy,  dear  Miss  Grayson,  to  be  with 

121 


PETER 

you,"  etc.,  which  was  finally  sealed  with  the  Breen 
crest — a  four-legged  beastie  of  some  kind  on  its  hind 
legs,  with  a  motto  explanatory  of  the  promptness  of 
his  ancestors  in  times  of  danger.  Even  then  Corinne 
had  hesitated  about  accepting  until  Garry  said :  "  Well, 
let's  take  it  in,  anyhow — we  can  skip  out  if  they 
bore  us  stiff." 

Knowing  these  things,  therefore,  and  fearing  that 
after  all  something  would  happen  to  mar  the  pleasant 
relations  he  had  established  with  Peter,  and  with  the 
honor  of  his  uncle's  family  in  his  keeping,  so  to  speak, 
Jack  had  awaited  the  arrival  of  Corinne  and  Garry 
with  considerable  trepidation.  What  if,  after  all,  they 
should  stay  away,  ignoring  the  great  courtesy  which 
this  most  charming  of  old  ladies — never  had  he  seen 
one  so  lovable  or  distinguished — had  extended  to  them; 
and  she  a  stranger,  too,  and  all  because  her  brother 
Peter  had  asked  her  to  be  kind  to  a  boy  like  himself. 

The  entrance  of  Corinne  and  Garry,  therefore,  into 
the  crowded  room  half  an  hour  after  his  own  had 
brought  a  relief  to  Jack's  mind  (he  had  been  watching 
the  door,  so  as  to  be  ready  to  present  them),  which 
Miss  Felicia's  gracious  salutation  only  intensified. 

"I  remember  your  dear  mother  perfectly,"  he  heard 
the  old  lady  say  as  she  advanced  to  Corinne  and  took 
both  her  hands.  "And  she  was  quite  lovely.  And 
this  I  am  very  sure  is  Mr.  Breen 's  friend,  Mr.  Minott, 
who  has  carried  off  all  the  honors.  I  am  delighted  to 
see  you  both.  Peter,  do  you  take  these  dear  young 
people  and  present  them  to  Ruth." 

122 


PETER 

The  two  had  thereupon  squeezed  through  to  Ruth's 
side;  Peter  in  his  formal  introduction  awarding  to 
Garry  all  the  honors  to  which  he  was  entitled,  and 
then  Ruth,  remembering  her  duties,  said  how  glad 
she  was  to  know  them;  and  would  they  have  lemon  or 
sugar? — and  Corinne,  with  a  comprehensive  glance  of 
her  rival,  declined  both,  her  excuse  being  that  she  was 
nearly  dead  now  with  the  heat  and  that  a  cup  of  tea 
would  finish  her.  Jack  had  winced  when  his  ears 
caught  the  flippant  answer,  but  it  was  nothing  to  the 
way  in  which  he  shrivelled  up  when  Garry,  after 
shaking  Miss  MacFarlane's  hand  as  if  it  had  been  a 
pump-handle  instead  of  a  thing  so  dainty  that  no  boy 
had  a  right  to  touch  it  except  with  reverence  in  his 
heart,  had  burst  out  with:  "Glad  to  see  you.  From 
the  South,  I  hear — "  as  if  she  was  a  kangaroo  or  a 
Fiji  Islander.  He  had  seen  Miss  MacFarlane  give 
a  little  start  at  Garry's  familiar  way  of  speaking,  and 
had  noticed  how  Ruth  shrank  behind  the  urn  as  if  she 
were  afraid  he  would  touch  her  again,  although  she 
had  laughed  quite  good-naturedly  as  she  answered: 

"Not  very  far  South;  only  from  Maryland,"  and 
had  then  turned  to  Jack  and  continued  her  talk  with 
the  air  of  one  not  wishing  to  be  further  interrupted. 

The  Scribe  does  not  dare  to  relate  what  would  have 
become  of  one  so  sensitive  as  our  hero  could  he  have 
heard  the  discussion  going  on  later  between  the  two 
young  people  when  they  were  backed  into  one  of  Peter's 
book-cases  and  stood  surveying  the  room.  "Miss 
MacFarlane  isn't  at  all  my  kind  of  a  girl,"  Corinne 

123 


PETER 

had  declared  to  Garry.  "Really,  I  can't  see  why  the 
men  rave  over  her.  Pretty? — yes,  sort  of  so-so;  but 
no  style,  and  such  clothes!  Fancy  wearing  a  pink 
lawn  and  a  sash  tied  around  her  waist  like  a  girl  at  a 
college  commencement — and  as  to  her  hair — why  no 
one  has  ever  thought  of  dressing  her  hair  that  way 
for  ages  and  ages" 

Her  mind  thus  relieved,  my  Lady  Wren  had  made 
a  survey  of  the  rooms,  wondering  what  they  wanted 
with  so  many  funny  old  portraits,  and  whether  the  old 
gentleman  or  his  sister  read  the  dusty  books,  Garry 
remarking  that  there  were  a  lot  of  "  swells  "among  the 
young  fellows,  many  of  whom  he  had  heard  of  but  had 
never  met  before.  This  done  the  two  wedged  their 
way  out,  without  ever  troubling  Peter  or  Miss  Felicia 
with  their  good-bys,  Garry  telling  Corinne  that  the 
old  lady  wouldn't  know  they  were  gone,  and  Corinne 
adding  under  her  breath  that  it  didn't  make  any  dif- 
ference to  her  if  she  did. 


124 


CHAPTER  IX 

But  Jack  stayed  on. 

This  was  the  atmosphere  he  had  longed  for.  This, 
too,  was  where  Peter  lived.  Here  were  the  chairs  he 
sat  in,  the  books  he  read,  the  pictures  he  enjoyed. 
And  the  well-dressed,  well-bred  people,  the  hum  of 
low  voices,  the  clusters  of  roses,  the  shaded  candles, 
their  soft  rosy  light  falling  on  the  egg-shell  cups  and 
saucers  and  silver  service,  and  the  lovely  girl  dispensing 
all  this  hospitality  and  cheer!  Yes,  here  he  could  live, 
breathe,  enjoy  life.  Everything  was  worth  while  and 
just  as  he  had  expected  to  find  it. 

When  the  throng  grew  thick  about  her  table  he  left 
Ruth's  side,  taking  the  opportunity  to  speak  to  Peter 
or  Miss  Felicia  (he  knew  few  others),  but  he  was  back 
again  whenever  the  chance  offered. 

"Don't  send  me  away  again,"  he  pleaded  when  he 
came  back  for  the  twentieth  time,  and  with  so  much 
meaning  in  his  voice  that  she  looked  at  him  with  wide- 
open  eyes.  It  was  not  what  he  said — she  had  been 
brought  up  on  that  kind  of  talk — it  was  the  way  he 
said  it,  and  the  inflection  in  his  voice. 

"I  have  been  literally  starving  for  somebody  like 
you  to  talk  to,"  he  continued,  drawing  up  a  stool  and 
settling  himself  determinedly  beside  her. 

125 


PETER 

"For  me!  Why,  Mr.  Breen,  I'm  not  a  piece  of 
bread — "  she  laughed.  "I'm  just  girl."  He  had  be- 
gun to  interest  her — this  brown-eyed  young  fellow 
who  wore  his  heart  on  his  sleeve,  spoke  her  dialect 
and  treated  her  as  if  she  were  a  duchess. 

"You  are  life-giving  bread  to  me,  Miss  MacFarlane," 
answered  Jack  with  a  smile.  "I  have  only  been 
here  six  months;  I  am  from  the  South,  too."  And 
then  the  boy  poured  out  his  heart,  telling  her,  as  he 
had  told  Peter,  how  lonely  he  got  sometimes  for  some 
of  his  own  kind;  and  how  the  young  girl  in  the  lace 
hat  and  feathers,  who  had  come  in  with  Garry,  was 
his  aunt's  daughter;  and  how  he  himself  was  in  the 
Street,  signing  checks  all  day — at  which  she  laughed, 
saying  in  reply  that  nothing  would  give  her  greater 
pleasure  than  a  big  book  with  plenty  of  blank  checks 
— she  had  never  had  enough,  and  her  dear  father  had 
never  had  enough,  either.  But  he  omitted  all  mention 
of  the  faro  bank  and  of  the  gamblers — such  things 
not  being  proper  for  her  ears,  especially  such  little 
pink  shells  of  ears,  nestling  and  half  hidden  in  her  beau- 
tiful hair. 

There  was  no  knowing  how  long  this  absorbing  con- 
versation might  have  continued  (it  had  already  attracted 
the  attention  of  Miss  Felicia)  had  not  a  great  stir 
taken  place  at  the  door  of  the  outside  hall.  Some- 
body was  coming  upstairs;  or  had  come  upstairs; 
somebody  that  Peter  was  laughing  with — great,  hearty 
laughs,  which  showed  his  delight;  somebody  that 
made  Miss  Felicia  raise  her  head  and  listen,  a  light 

126 


PETER 

breaking    over    her    face.     Then    Peter's    head  was 
thrust  in  the  door: 

"Here  he  is,  Felicia.  Come  along,  Holker — I  have 
been  wondering " 

"Been  wondering  what,  Peter?  That  I'd  stay  away 
a  minute  longer  than  I  could  help  after  this  dear  lady 
had  arrived?  .  .  .  Ah,  Miss  Felicia!  Just  as  mag- 
nificent and  as  young  as  ever.  Still  got  that  Marie 
Antoinette  look  about  you — you  ought  really " 

"Stop  that  nonsense,  Holker,  right  away,"  she  cried, 
advancing  a  step  to  greet  him. 

"But  it's  all  true,  and " 

"Stop,  I  tell  you;  none  of  your  sugar-coated  lies. 
I  am  seventy  if  I  am  a  day,  and  look  it,  and  if  it  were 
not  for  these  furbelows  I  would  look  eighty.  Now 
tell  me  about  yourself  and  Kitty  and  the  boys,  and 
whether  the  Queen  has  sent  you  the  Gold  Medal  yet, 
and  if  the  big  Library  is  finished  and " 

"Whew!  what  a  cross  examination.  Wait — I'll 
draw  up  a  set  of  specifications  and  hand  them  in  with 
a  new  plan  of  my  life." 

"You  will  do  nothing  of  the  kind!  You  will  draw  up 
a  chair — here,  right  alongside  of  me,  and  tell  me  about 
Kitty  and —  No,  Peter,  he  is  not  going  to  be  taken 
over  and  introduced  to  Ruth  for  at  least  five  minutes. 
Peter  has  fallen  in  love  with  her,  Holker,  and  I  do  not 
blame  him.  One  of  these  young  fellows — there  he  is 
still  talking  to  her — hasn't  left  her  side  since  he  put  his 
eyes  on  her.  Now  begin —  The  Medal? " 

"Expected  by  next  steamer." 
127 


PETER 

"The  Corn  Exchange?" 

"All  finished  but  the  inside  work." 

"Kitty?" 

"All  finished  but  the  outside  work." 

Miss  Felicia  looked  up.  "Your  wife,  I  mean,  you 
stupid  fellow." 

"Yes,  I  know.  She  would  have  come  with  me  but 
her  dress  didn't  arrive  in  time." 

Miss  Felicia  laughed:     "And  the  boys?" 

"Still  in  Paris — buying  bric-a-brac  and  making 
believe  they're  studying  architecture  and —  But  I'm 
not  going  to  answer  another  question.  Attention! 
Miss  Felicia  Grayson  at  the  bar!" 

The  dear  lady  straightened  her  back,  her  face  crin- 
kling with  merriment. 

"Present!"  she  replied,  drawing  down  the  corners 
of  her  mouth. 

"When  did  you  leave  home?  How  long  will  you 
stay  ?  Can  you  come  to  dinner — you  and  Methusaleh 
— on  Wednesday  night?" 

"I  refuse  to  answer  by  advice  of  counsel.  As  to 
coming  to  dinner,  I  am  not  going  anywhere  for  a  week 
— then  I  am  coming  to  you  and  Kitty,  whether  it  is 
Wednesday  or  any  other  night.  Now,  Peter,  take  him 
away.  He's  so  puffed  up  with  his  Gold  Medal  he's 
positively  unbearable." 

All  this  time  Jack  had  been  standing  beside  Ruth.  He 
had  heard  the  stir  at  the  door  and  had  seen  Holker  join 
Miss  Felicia,  and  while  the  talk  between  the  two  lasted 
he  had  interspersed  his  talk  to  Ruth  with  accounts 

128 


PETER 

of  the  supper,  and  Garry's  getting  the  ring,  to  which 
was  added  the  boy's  enthusiastic  tribute  to  the  architect 
himself.  "The  greatest  man  I  have  met  yet,"  he  said 
in  his  quick,  impulsive  way.  "We  don't  have  any  of 
them  down  our  way.  I  never  saw  one — nobody  ever 
did.  Here  he  comes  with  Mr.  Grayson.  I  hope 
you  will  like  him." 

Ruth  made  a  movement  as  if  to  start  to  her  feet. 
To  sit  still  and  look  her  best  and  attend  to  her  cups 
and  hot  water  and  tiny  wafers  was  all  right  for  men 
like  Jack,  but  not  with  distinguished  men  like  Mr. 
Morris. 

Morris  had  his  hand  on  her  chair  before  she  could 
move  it  back. 

"No,  my  dear  young  lady — you'll  please  keep  your 
seat.  I've  been  watching  you  from  across  the  room 
and  you  make  too  pretty  a  picture  as  you  are.  Tea  ? — 
Not  a  drop." 

"Oh,  but  it  is  so  delicious — and  I  will  give  you  the 
very  biggest  piece  of  lemon  that  is  left." 

"No — not  a  drop;  and  as  to  lemon — that's  rank 
poison  to  me.  You  should  have  seen  me  hobbling 
around  with  gout  only  last  week,  and  all  because 
somebody  at  a  reception,  or  tea,  or  some  such  plaguey 
affair,  made  me  drink  a  glass  of  lemonade.  Give  it 
to  this  aged  old  gentleman — it  will  keep  him  awake. 
Here,  Peter!" 

Up  to  this  moment  no  word  had  been  addressed 
to  Jack,  who  stood  outside  the  half  circle  waiting 
for  some  sign  of  recognition  from  the  great  man; 

129 


PETER 

and  a  little  disappointed  when  none  came.  He  did 
not  know  that  one  of  the  great  man's  failings  was  his 
forgetting  the  names  even  of  those  of  his  intimate 
friends — such  breaks  as  "  Glad  to  see  you — I  remem- 
ber you  very  well,  and  very  pleasantly,  and  now  please 
tell  me  your  name,"  being  a  common  occurrence  with 
the  great  architect — a  failing  that  everybody  par- 
doned. 

Peter  noticed  the  boy's  embarrassment  and  touched 
Morris's  arm. 

"You  remember  Mr.  Breen,  don't  you,  Holker? 
He  was  at  your  supper  that  night — and  sat  next  to 
me." 

Morris  whirled  quickly  and  held  out  his  hand,  all 
his  graciousness  in  his  manner. 

"Yes,  certainly.  You  took  the  ring  to  Minott,  of 
course.  Very  glad  to  meet  you  again — and  what 
did  you  say  his  name  was,  Peter?"  This  in  the  same 
tone  of  voice — quite  as  if  Jack  were  miles  away. 

"Breen — John  Breen,"  answered  Peter,  putting  his 
arm  on  Jack's  shoulder,  to  accentuate  more  clearly 
his  friendship  for  the  boy. 

"All  the  better,  Mr.  John  Breen — doubly  glad  to 
see  you,  now  that  I  know  your  name.  I'll  try  not  to 
forget  it  next  time.  Breen!  Breen!  Peter,  where 
have  I  heard  that  name  before?  Breen — where  the 
devil  have  I —  Oh,  yes — I've  got  it  now.  Quite  a 
common  name,  isn't  it?" 

Jack  assured  him  with  a  laugh  that  it  was;  there 
were  more  than  a  hundred  in  the  city  directory.  He 

130 


PETER 

wasn't  offended  at  Morris  forgetting  his  name,  and 
wanted  him  to  see  it. 

"Glad  to  know  it;  wouldn't  like  to  think  you  were 
mixed  up  in  the  swindle.  You  ought  to  thank  your 
stars,  my  dear  fellow,  that  you  got  into  architecture 
instead  of  into  Wall " 

"But  I  am  in " 

"Yes,  I  know — you're  with  Hunt — "  (another  in- 
stance of  a  defective  memory)  "and  you  couldn't  be 
with  a  better  man — the  best  in  the  profession,  really. 
I'm  talking  of  some  scoundrels  of  your  name — Breen 
&  Co.,  the  firm  is — who,  I  hear,  have  cheated  one  of 
my  clients — young  Gilbert — fine  fellow — just  married 
—persuaded  him  to  buy  some  gold  stock — Mukton 
Lode,  I  think  they  called  it — and  robbed  him  of  all 
he  has.  He  must  stop  on  his  house  I  hear.  And  now, 
my  dear  Miss — "  here  he  turned  to  the  young  girl — 
"I  really  forget " 

"Ruth,"  she  answered  with  a  smile.  She  had  taken 
Morris's  measure  and  had  already  begun  to  like  him 
as  much  as  Jack  did. 

"Yes — Miss  Ruth — Now,  please,  my  dear  girl,  keep 
on  being  young  and  very  beautiful  and  very  whole- 
some, for  you  are  every  one  of  these  things,  and  I 
know  you'll  forgive  me  for  saying  so  when  I  tell  you 
that  I  have  two  strapping  young  fellows  for  sons  who 
are  almost  old  enough  to  make  love  to  you.  Come, 
Peter,  show  me  that  copy  of  Tacitus  you  wrote  me 
about.  Is  it  in  good  condition?"  They  were  out 
of  Jack's  hearing  now,  Morris  adding,  "Fine  type  of 

131 


PETER 

Southern  beauty,  Peter.  Big  design,  with  broad  lines 
everywhere.  Good,  too — good  as  gold.  Something 
about  her  forehead  that  reminds  me  of  the  Italian 
school.  Looks  as  if  Bellini  might  have  loved  her. 
Hello,  Major!  What  are  you  doing  here  all  by  your- 
self?" 

Jack  stood  transfixed! 

Horror,  anger,  humiliation  over  the  exposure  (it 
was  unheard,  if  he  had  but  known  it,  by  any  one  in 
the  room  except  Peter  and  himself)  rushed  over  him 
in  hot  concurrent  waves.  It  was  his  uncle,  then,  who 
had  robbed  young  Gilbert!  The  Mukton  Lode!  He 
had  handled  dozens  of  the  certificates,  just  as  he  had 
handled  dozens  of  others,  hardly  glancing  at  the  names. 
He  remembered  overhearing  some  talk  one  day  in 
which  his  uncle  had  taken  part.  Only  a  few  days  be- 
fore he  had  sent  a  bundle  of  Mukton  certificates  to 
the  transfer  office  of  the  company. 

Then  a  chill  struck  him  full  in  the  chest  and  he  shiv- 
ered to  his  finger-tips.  Had  Ruth  heard  ? — and  if  she 
had  heard,  would  she  understand  ?  In  his  talk  he  had 
given  her  his  true  self — his  standards  of  honor — his 
beliefs  in  what  was  true  and  worth  having.  When  she 
knew  all — and  she  must  know — would  she  look  upon 
him  as  a  fraud?  That  his  uncle  had  been  accused 
of  a  shrewd  scoop  in  the  Street  did  not  make  his  clerk 
a  thief,  but  would  she  see  the  difference? 

All  these  thoughts  surged  through  his  mind  as  he 
stood  looking  into  her  eyes,  her  hand  in  his  while  he 
made  his  adieux.  He  had  determined,  before  Morris 

132 


PETER 

fired  the  bomb  which  shattered  his  hopes,  to  ask  if  he 
might  see  her  again,  and  where,  and  if  there  could 
be  found  no  place  fitting  and  proper,  she  being  mother- 
less and  Miss  Felicia  but  a  chaperon,  to  write  her  a 
note  inviting  her  to  walk  up  through  the  Park  with 
him,  and  so  on  into  the  open  where  she  really  belonged. 
All  this  was  given  up  now.  The  best  thing  for  him 
was  to  take  his  leave  as  quietly  as  possible,  without 
committing  her  to  anything — anything  which  he  felt 
sure  she  would  repudiate  as  soon  as  she  learned — 
if  she  did  not  know  already — how  undesirable  an 
acquaintance  John  Breen,  of  Breen&  Co.,  was,  etc. 

As  to  his  uncle's  share  in  the  miserable  transaction, 
there  was  but  one  thing  to  do — to  find  out,  and  from 
his  own  lips,  if  possible,  if  the  story  were  true,  and  if 
so  to  tell  him  exactly  what  he  thought  of  Breen  &  Co. 
and  the  business  in  which  they  were  engaged.  Peter's 
advice  was  good,  and  he  wished  he  could  follow  it, 
but  here  was  a  matter  in  which  his  honor  was  con- 
cerned. When  this  side  of  the  matter  was  presented 
to  Mr.  Grayson  he  would  commend  him  for  his  course 
.of  action.  To  think  that  his  own  uncle  should  be  ac- 
cused of  a  transaction  of  this  kind — his  own  uncle  and 
a  Breen!  Could  anything  be  more  horrible! 

So  sudden  was  his  departure  from  the  room — just 
"I  must  go  now;  I'm  so  grateful  to  you  all  for  asking 
me,  and  I've  had  such  a  good —  Good-by — "  that 
Miss  Felicia  looked  after  him  in  astonishment,  turning 
to  Peter  with: 

"Why,  what's  the  matter  with  the  boy?  I  wanted 
133 


PETER 

him  to  dine  with  us.     Did  you  say  anything  to  him, 
Peter,  to  hurt  his  feelings?" 

Peter  shook  his  head.  Morris,  he  knew,  was  the 
unconscious  culprit,  but  this  was  not  for  his  sister's 
or  Ruth's  ears — not,  at  least,  until  he  could  get  at  the 
exact  facts  for  himself. 

"He  is  as  sensitive  as  a  plant,"  continued  Peter; 
"he  closes  all  up  at  times.  But  he  is  genuine,  and  he 
is  sincere — that's  better  than  poise,  sometimes." 

"Well,  then,  maybe  Ruth  has  offended  him,"  sug- 
gested Miss  Felicia.  "No — she  couldn't.  Ruth,  what 
have  you  done  to  young  Mr.  Breen?" 

The  girl  threw  back  her  head  and  laughed. 

"Nothing." 

"Well,  he  went  off  as  if  he  had  been  shot  from  a 
gun.  That  is  not  like  him  at  all,  I  should  say,  from 
what  I  have  seen  of  him.  Perhaps  I  should  have 
looked  after  him  a  little  more.  I  tried  once,  but  I 
could  not  get  him  away  from  you.  His  manner  is 
really  charming  when  he  talks,  and  he  is  so  natural 
and  so  well  bred;  not  at  all  like  his  friend,  of  whom  he 
seems  to  think  so  much.  How  did  you  like  him, 
dear  Ruth?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know."     She  knew,  but  she  didn't 

intend  to  tell  anybody.     "He's  very  shy  and " 

— And  very  young." 

"Yes,  perhaps." 

"And  very  much  of  a  gentleman,"  broke  in  Peter 
in  a  decided  tone.  No  one  should  misunderstand  the 
boy  if  he  could  help  it. 

134 


PETER 

Again  Ruth  laughed.  Neither  of  them  had  touched 
the  button  which  had  rung  up  her  sympathy  and 
admiration. 

"Of  course  he  is  a  gentleman.  He  couldn't  be 
anything  else.  He  is  from  Maryland,  you  know." 


135 


CHAPTER  X 

Reference  has  been  made  in  these  pages  to  a  dinner 
to  be  given  in  the  house  of  Breen  to  various  important 
people,  and  to  which  Mr.  Peter  Grayson,  the  honored 
friend  of  the  distinguished  President  of  the  Clearing 
House,  was  to  be  invited.  The  Scribe  is  unable  to  say 
whether  the  distinguished  Mr.  Grayson  received  an 
invitation  or  not.  Breen  may  have  thought  better  of 
it,  or  Jack  may  have  discouraged  it  after  closer  acquaint- 
ance with  the  man  who  had  delighted  his  soul  as  no 
other  man  except  his  father  had  ever  done — but  certain 
it  is  that  he  was  not  present,  and  equally  certain  is  it 
that  the  distinguished  Mr.  Portman  was,  and  so  were 
many  of  the  directors  of  the  Mukton  Lode,  not  to 
mention  various  others — capitalists  whose  presence 
would  lend  dignity  to  the  occasion  and  whose  names 
and  influence  would  be  of  inestimable  value  to  the 
future  of  the  corporation. 

As  ate  would  have  it  the  day  for  assuaging  the  appe- 
tites of  these  finanical  magnates  was  the  same  that  Miss 
Felicia  had  selected  for  her  tea  to  Ruth,  and  the  time 
at  which  they  were  to  draw  up  their  chairs  but  two 
hours  subsequent  to  that  in  which  Jack,  crushed  and 
humiliated  by  his  uncle's  knavery,  had  crept  down- 
stairs and  into  the  street. 

136 


PETER 

In  this  frame  of  mind  the  poor  boy  had  stopped  at 
the  Magnolia  in  the  hope  of  finding  Garry,  who  must, 
he  thought,  have  left  Corinne  at  home,  and  then  re- 
traced his  steps  to  the  club.  He  must  explode  some- 
where and  with  some  one,  and  the  young  architect  was 
the  very  man  he  wanted.  Garry  had  ridiculed  his  old- 
fashioned  ideas  and  had  advised  him  to  let  himself 
go.  Was  the  wiping  out  of  Gilbert's  fortune  part  of 
the  System?  he  asked  himself. 

As  he  hunted  through  the  rooms,  almost  deserted 
at  this  hour,  his  eyes  searching  for  his  friend,  a  new 
thought  popped  into  his  head,  and  with  such  force 
that  it  bowled  him  over  into  a  chair,  where  he  sat  star- 
ing straight  in  front  of  him.  To-night,  he  suddenly 
remembered,  was  the  night  of  the  dinner  his  uncle  was 
to  give  to  some  business  friends — "A  Gold -Mine  Din- 
ner," his  aunt  had  called  it.  His  cheeks  flamed  again 
when  he  thought  that  these  very  men  had  helped  in 
the  Mukton  swindle.  To  interrupt  them,  though,  at 
their  feast — or  even  to  mention  the  subject  to  his  uncle 
while  the  dinner  was  in  progress — was,  of  course,  out 
of  the  question.  He  would  stay  where  he  was;  dine 
alone,  unless  Garry  came  in,  and  then  when  the  last 
man  had  left  his  uncle's  house  he  would  have  it  out 
with  him. 

Biffton  was  the  only  man  who  disturbed  his  solitude. 
Biffy  was  in  full  evening  dress — an  enormous  white 
carnation  in  his  button-hole  and  a  crush  hat  under  his 
arm.  He  was  booked  for  a  "Stag,"  he  said  with  a 
yawn,  or  he  would  stay  and  keep  him  company.  Jack 

137 


PETER 

didn't  want  any  company — certainly  not  Biffy — most 
assuredly  not  any  of  the  young  fellows  who  had  asked 
him  about  Gilbert's  failure.  What  he  wanted  was  to 
be  left  alone  until  eleven  o'clock,  during  which  time  he 
would  get  something  to  eat. 

Dinner  over,  he  buried  himself  in  a  chair  in  the 
library  and  let  his  mind  roam.  Angry  as  he  was, 
Ruth's  image  still  haunted  him.  How  pretty  she  was 
— how  gracefully  she  moved  her  arm  as  she  lifted  the 
cups;  and  the  way  the  hair  waved  about  her  temples; 
and  the  tones  of  her  voice — and  dear  Peter,  so  kind 
and  thoughtful  of  him,  so  careful  that  he  should  be 
introduced  to  this  and  that  person;  and  Miss  Felicia! 
What  a  great  lady  she  was;  and  yet  he  was  not  a  bit 
afraid  of  her.  What  would  they  all  think  of  him  when 
the  facts  of  his  uncle's  crime  came  to  their  ears,  and 
they  must  come  sooner  or  later.  What,  too,  would 
Peter  think  of  him  for  breaking  out  on  his  uncle,  which 
he  firmly  intended  to  do  as  soon  as  the  hour  hand 
reached  eleven?  Nor  would  he  mince  his  words. 
That  an  outrage  of  this  kind  could  be  committed  on 
an  unsuspecting  man  was  bad  enough,  but  that  it 
should  have  taVen  place  in  his  own  uncle's  office, 
bringing  into  disrepute  his  father's  and  his  own  good 
name,  was  something  he  could  not  tolerate  for  a  mo- 
ment. This  he  intended  saying  to  his  uncle  in  so  many 
plain  words;  and  so  leaving  our  hero  with  his  soul 
on  fire,  his  mind  bent  on  inflammables,  explosives, 
high-pressures — anything  in  fact  that  once  inserted 
under  the  solid  body  of  the  senior  Breen  would  blow 

138 


PETER 

that  gentleman  into  space — we  will  betake  ourselves 
to  his  palatial  home. 

The  dinner  being  an  important  one,  no  expense  had 
been  spared. 

All  day  long  boys  in  white  aprons  had  sprung  from 
canvas-covered  wagons,  dived  in  Arthur  Breen's  kitchen 
and  dived  out  again  after  depositing  various  eatables, 
drinkables  and  cookables — among  them  six  pair  of 
redheads,  two  saddles  of  mutton,  besides  such  uncanny 
things  as  mushrooms,  truffles  and  the  like,  all  of  which 
had  been  turned  over  to  the  chef,  who  was  expressly 
engaged  for  the  occasion,  and  whose  white  cap — to 
quote  Parkins — "Gives  a  hair  to  the  scullery  which 
reminded  him  more  of  'ome  than  anything  'e  'ad  seen 
since  'e  left  'is  lordship's  service." 

Upstairs  more  wonderful  things  had  been  done. 
The  table  of  the  sepulchral  dining-room  was  trans- 
formed into  a  bed  of  tulips,  the  mantel  a  parterre  of 
flowers,  while  the  sideboard,  its  rear  packed  with  the 
family  silver,  was  guarded  by  a  row  of  bottles  of  various 
sizes,  shapes  and  colors;  various  degrees  of  cob- 
webbed  shabbiness,  too — containing  the  priceless  vin- 
tages which  the  senior  member  of  the  firm  of  Breen  & 
Co.  intended  to  set  before  his  friends. 

Finally,  as  the  dinner  hour  approached,  all  the  gas- 
jets  were  ablaze;  not  only  the  side  lights  in  the  main 
hall,  and  the  overhead  lantern  which  had  shed  its 
rays  on  Peter's  bald  head,  but  the  huge  glass  chandelier 
hung  in  the  middle  of  the  satin-upholstered  drawing- 
room,  as  well  as  the  candelabra  on  the  mantel  with 

139 


PETER 

their  imitation  wax  candles  and  brass  wicks — every- 
thing, in  fact,  that  could  add  to  the  brilliancy  of  the 
occasion. 

All  this,  despite  the  orderly  way  in  which  the  million- 
aire's house  was  run,  had  developed  a  certain  nervous 
anxiety  in  the  host  himself,  the  effect  of  which  had  not 
yet  worn  off,  although  but  a  few  minutes  would  elapse 
before  the  arrival  of  the  guests.  This  was  apparent 
in  the  rise  and  fall  of  Breen's  heels,  as  he  seesawed 
back  and  forth  on  the  hearth-rug  in  the  satin-lined 
drawing-room,  with  his  coat-tails  spread  to  the  life- 
less grate,  and  from  the  way  he  glanced  nervously  at 
the  mirror  to  see  that  his  cravat  was  properly  tied  and 
that  his  collar  did  not  ride  up  in  the  back. 

The  only  calm  person  in  the  house  was  the  ex-widow. 
With  the  eyes  of  a  major-general  sweeping  the  field 
on  the  eve  of  an  important  battle,  she  had  taken  in 
the  disposition  of  the  furniture,  the  hang  of  the  curtains 
and  the  placing  of  the  cushions  and  lesser  comforts. 
She  had  also  arranged  with  her  own  hands  the  masses 
of  narcissus  and  jonquils  on  the  mantels,  and  had  se- 
lected the  exact  shade  of  yellow  tulips  which  centred 
the  dining-room  table.  It  was  to  be  a  "Gold-Mine 
Dinner,"  so  Arthur  had  told  her,  "and  everything 
must  be  in  harmony." 

Then  seeing  Parkins,  who  had  entered  unexpectedly 
and  caught  her  in  the  act  (it  is  bad  form  for  a  hostess 
to  arrange  flowers  in  some  houses — the  butler  does 
that),  she  asked  in  an  indifferent  tone:  "And  how 
many  are  we  to  have  for  dinner,  Parkins?"  She 

140 


PETER 

knew,  of  course,  having  spent  an  hour  over  a  diagram 
placing  the  guests. 

" Fourteen,  my  lady." 

"Fourteen! — really,  quite  a  small  affair."  And  with 
the  air  of  one  accustomed  all  her  life  to  banquets  in 
palaces  of  state,  she  swept  out  of  the  room. 

The  only  time  she  betrayed  herself  was  just  before 
the  arrival  of  the  guests,  when  her  mind  reverted  to 
her  daughter. 

"The  Portmans  are  giving  a  ball  next  week,  Arthur, 
and  I  want  Corinne  to  go.  Are  you  sure  he  is  coming  ?  " 

"Don't  worry,  Kitty,  Portman's  coming;  and  so 
are  the  Colonel,  and  Crossbin,  and  Hodges,  and  the 
two  Chicago  directors,  and  Mason,  and  a  lot  more. 
Everybody's  coming,  I  tell  you.  If  Mukton  Lode 
doesn't  sit  up  and  take  notice  with  a  new  lease  of  life 
after  to-night,  I'm  a  Dutchman.  Run,  there's  the  bell." 

The  merciful  Scribe  will  spare  the  reader  the  de- 
tails incident  upon  the  arrival  of  the  several  guests. 
These  dinners  are  all  alike:  the  announcements  by 
the  butler;  the  passing  of  the  cocktails  on  a  wine- 
tray;  the  standing  around  until  the  last  man  has 
entered  the  drawing-room;  the  perfunctory  talk — the 
men  who  have  met  before  hobnobbing  instantly  with 
each  other,  the  host  bearing  the  brunt  of  the  strangers; 
the  saunter  into  the  dining-room,  the  reading  of  cards, 
and  the  "Here  you  are,  Mr.  Portman,  right  alongside 
Mr.  Hodges.  And  Crossbin,  you  are  down  there 
somewhere";  the  spreading  of  napkins  and  squaring 
of  everybody's  elbow  as  each  man  drops  into  his  seat. 

141 


PETER 

Neither  will  the  reader  be  told  of  the  various  dishes 
or  their  garnishings.  These  pages  have  so  far  been 
filled  with  little  else  beside  eating  and  drinking,  and 
with  reason,  too,  for  have  not  all  the  great  things  in 
life  been  begun  over  some  tea-table,  carried  on  at  a 
luncheon,  and  completed  between  the  soup  and  the 
cordials?  Kings,  diplomats  and  statesmen  have  long 
since  agreed  that  for  baiting  a  trap  there  is  nothing 
like  a  soup,  an  entree  and  a  roast,  the  whole  moistened 
by  a  flagon  of  honest  wine.  The  bait  varies  when  the 
financier  or  promoter  sets  out  to  catch  a  capitalist, 
just  as  it  does  when  one  sets  out  to  catch  a  mouse, 
and  yet  the  two  mammals  are  much  alike — timid,  one 
foot  at  a  time,  nosing  about  to  find  out  if  any  of  his 
friends  have  had  a  nibble;  scared  at  the  least  disturb- 
ing echo — then  the  fat,  toothsome  cheese  looms  up 
(Breen's  Madeira  this  time),  and  in  they  go. 

But  if  fuller  description  of  this  special  bait  be 
omitted,  there  is  no  reason  why  that  of  the  baiters 
and  the  baited  should  be  left  out  of  the  narrative. 

Old  Colonel  Purviance,  of  the  Chesapeake  Club,  for 
one — a  big-paunched  man  who  always  wore,  summer 
and  winter,  a  reasonably  white  waistcoat  and  a  sleazy 
necktie;  swore  in  a  loud  voice  and  dropped  his  g's 
when  he  talked.  "Bit  'em  off,"  his  friends  said,  as  he 
did  the  end  of  his  cigars.  He  had,  in  honor  of  the  occa- 
sion, so  contrived  that  his  black  coat  and  trousers 
matched  this  time,  while  his  shoestring  tie  had  been  re- 
placed by  a  white  cravat.  But  the  waistcoat  was  of  the 
old  pattern  and  the  top  button  loose,  as  usual.  The 

142 


PETER 

Colonel  earned  his  living — and  a  very  comfortable  one 
it  was — by  promoting  various  enterprises — some  of 
them  rather  shady.  He  had  also  a  gift  for  both  start- 
ing and  maintaining  a  boom.  Most  of  the  Mukton 
stock  owned  by  the  Southern  contingent  had  been 
floated  by  him.  Another  of  his  accomplishments  was 
his  ability  to  label  correctly,  with  his  eyes  shut,  any 
bottle  of  Madeira  from  anybody's  cellar,  and  to  his 
credit,  be  it  said,  he  never  lied  about  the  quality,  be 
it  good,  bad  or  abominable. 

Next  to  him  sat  Mason,  from  Chicago — a  Westerner 
who  had  made  his  money  in  a  sudden  rise  in  real  estate, 
and  who  had  moved  to  New  York  to  spend  it :  an  out- 
spoken, common-sense,  plain  man,  with  yellow  eye- 
brows, yellow  head  partly  bald,  and  his  red  face  blue- 
specked  with  powder  marks  due  to  a  premature  blast 
in  his  mining  days.  Mason  couldn't  tell  the  best 
Tiernan  Madeira  from  corner-grocery  sherry,  and  pre- 
ferred whiskey  at  any  and  all  hours — and  what  was 
more,  never  assumed  for  one  instant  that  he  could. 

Then  came  Hodges,  the  immaculately  dressed  epi- 
cure— a  pale,  clean-shaven,  eye-glassed,  sterilized  kind 
of  a  man  with  a  long  neck  and  skinny  fingers,  who 
boasted  of  having  twenty-one  different  clarets  stored 
away  under  his  sidewalk  which  were  served  to  ordinary 
guests,  and  five  special  vintages  which  he  kept  under 
lock  and  key,  and  which  were  only  uncorked  for  the 
elect,  and  who  invariably  munched  an  olive  before 
sampling  the  next  wine.  Then  followed  such  lesser 
lights,  as  Nixon,  Leslie  and  the  other  guests. 

143 


PETER 

A  most  exacting  group  of  bons  vivants,  these.  The 
host  had  realized  it  and  had  brought  out  his  best. 
Most  of  it,  to  be  sure,  had  come  from  Beaver  Street, 
something  "rather  dry,  with  an  excellent  bouquet,"  the 
crafty  salesman  with  gimlet  eyes  had  said;  but,  then, 
most  of  the  old  Madeira  does  come  from  Beaver 
Street,  except  Portman's,  who  has  a  fellow  with  a  nose 
and  a  palate  hunting  the  auction  rooms  for  that  par- 
ticular Sunset  of  1834  which  had  lain  in  old  Mr. 
GrinnelPs  cellar  for  twenty-two  years;  and  that  other 
of  1839,  once  possessed  by  Colonel  Purviance,  a  wine 
which  had  so  sharpened  the  Colonel's  taste  that  he  was 
always  uncomfortable  when  dining  outside  of  his  club  or 
away  from  the  tables  of  one  or  two  experts  like  himself. 

These,  then,  were  the  palates  to  which  Breen  catered. 
Back  of  them  lay  their  good- will  and  good  feeling; 
still  back  of  them,  again,  their  bank  accounts  and — 
another  scoop  in  Mukton!  Most  of  the  guests  had 
had  a  hand  in  the  last  deal  and  they  were  ready  to 
share  in  the  next.  Although  this  particular  dinner  was 
supposed  to  be  a  celebration  of  the  late  victory,  two 
others,  equally  elaborate,  had  preceded  it;  both  Cross- 
bin  and  Hodges  having  entertained  nearly  this  same 
group  of  men  at  their  own  tables.  That  Breen,  with 
his  reputation  for  old  Madeira  and  his  supposed  ac- 
quaintance with  the  intricacies  of  a  Maryland  kitchen, 
would  outclass  them  both,  had  been  whispered  a  dozen 
times  since  the  receipt  of  his  invitation,  and  he  knew  it. 
Hence  the  alert  boy,  the  chef  in  the  white  cap,  and 
hence  the  seesawing  on  the  hearth-rug. 

144 


PETER 

"Like  it,  Crossbin?"  asked  Breen. 

Parkins  had  just  passed  down  the  table  with  a  dust- 
covered  bottle  which  he  handled  with  the  care  of  a 
collector  fingering  a  peachblow  vase.  The  precious 
fluid  had  been  poured  into  that  gentleman's  glass  and 
its  contents  were  now  within  an  inch  of  his  nose. 

The  moment  was  too  grave  for  instant  reply;  Mr. 
Crossbin  was  allowing  the  aroma  to  mount  to  the 
innermost  recesses  of  his  nostrils.  It  had  only  been 
a  few  years  since  he  had  performed  this  same  trick 
with  a  gourd  suspended  from  a  nail  in  his  father's 
back  kitchen,  overlooking  a  field  of  growing  corn; 
but  that  fact  was  not  public  property — not  here  in 
New  York. 

"Yes — smooth,  and  with  something  of  the  hills  in 
it.  Chateau  Lament,  is  it  not,  of  '61  ?" 

It  was  Chateau  of  something-or-other,  and  of  some 
year,  but  Breen  was  too  wise  to  correct  him.  He 
supposed  it  was  Chateau  Lafitte — that  is,  he  had 
instructed  Parkins  to  serve  that  particular  wine  and 
vintage. 

"Either  '61  or  '63,"  replied  Breen  with  the  air  of 
positive  certainty.  (How  that  boy  in  the  white  apron, 
who  had  watched  the  boss  paste  on  the  labels,  would 
have  laughed  had  he  been  under  the  table.) 

Further  down  the  cloth  Hodges,  the  epicure,  was  giv- 
ing his  views  as  to  the  proper  way  of  serving  truffles. 
A  dish  had  just  passed,,  with  an  underpinning  of  crust. 
Hodges's  early  life  had  qualified  him  as  an  expert  in 
cooking,  as  well  as  in  wines:  Ten  years  in  a  country 

145 


PETER 

store  swapping  sugar  for  sausages  and  tea  for  butter  and 
eggs;  five  more  clerk  in  a  Broadway  cloth  house,  with 
varied  boarding-house  experiences  (boiled  mutton  twice 
a  week,  with  pudding  on  Sundays);  three  years  junior 
partner,  with  a  room  over  Delmonico's;  then  a  rich 
wife  and  a  directorship  in  a  bank  (his  father-in-law 
was  the  heaviest  depositor);  next,  one  year  in  Europe 
and  home,  as  vice-president,  and  at  the  present  writing 
president  of  one  of  the  certify-as-early-as-ten-o'clock- 
in-the-morning  kind  of  banks,  at  which  Peter  would  so 
often  laugh.  With  these  experiences  there  came  the 
usual  blooming  and  expanding — all  the  earlier  life  for- 
gotten, really  ignored.  Soon  the  food  of  the  country 
became  unbearable.  Even  the  canvasbacks  must  feed 
on  a  certain  kind  of  wild  celery;  the  oysters  be  dredged 
from  a  particular  cove,  and  the  terrapin  drawn  from 
their  beds  with  the  Hodges'  coat  of  arms  cut  in  their 
backs  before  they  would  be  allowed  a  place  on  the 
ex-clerk's  table. 

It  is  no  wonder,  then,  that  everybody  listened  when 
the  distinguished  epicure  launched  out  on  the  proper 
way  to  both  acquire  and  serve  so  rare  and  toothsome 
a  morsel  as  a  truffle. 

"Mine  come  by  every  steamer/'  Hodges  asserted 
in  a  positive  tone — not  to  anybody  in  particular,  but 
with  a  sweep  of  the  table  to  attract  enough  listeners 
to  make  it  worth  while  for  him  to  proceed.  "My 
man  is  aboard  before  the  gang-plank  is  secure — gets 
my  package  from  the  chief  steward  and  is  at  my  house 
with  the  truffles  within  an  hour.  Then  I  at  once  take 

146 


PETER 

proper  care  of  them.  That  is  why  my  truffles  have 
that  peculiar  flavor  you  spoke  of,  Mr.  Portman,  when 
you  last  dined  at  my  house.  You  remember,  don't  you  ?  " 

Portman  nodded.  He  did  not  remember — not  the 
truffles.  He  recalled  some  white  port — but  that  was 
because  he  had  bought  the  balance  of  the  lot  himself. 

"Where  do  they  come  from?"  inquired  Mason,  the 
man  from  Chicago.  He  wanted  to  know  and  wasn't 
afraid  to  ask. 

"All  through  France.  Mine  are  rooted  near  a  little 
village  in  the  Province  of  Perigord." 

"What  roots 'em?" 

"Hogs — trained  hogs.  You  are  familiar,  of  course, 
with  the  way  they  are  secured?" 

Mason — plain  man  as  he  was — wasn't  familiar  with 
anything  remotely  connected  with  the  coralling  of 
truffles,  and  said  so.  Hodges  talked  on,  his  eye  rest- 
ing first  on  one  and  then  another  of  the  guests,  his 
voice  increasing  in  volume  whenever  a  fresh  listener 
craned  his  neck,  as  if  the  information  was  directed  to 
him  alone — a  trick  of  Hodges's  when  he  wanted  an 
audience. 

"And  now  a  word  of  caution,"  he  continued;  "some- 
thing that  most  of  you  may  not  know — always  root  on 
a  rainy  day — sunshine  spoils  their  flavor — makes  them 
tough  and  leathery." 

"Kind  of  hog  got  anything  to  do  with  the  taste?" 
asked  Mason  in  all  sincerity.  He  was  learning  New 
York  ways — a  new  lesson  each  day,  and  intended  to 
keep  on,  but  not  by  keeping  his  mouth  shut. 

147 


PETER 

"Nothing  whatever,"  replied  Hodges.  "They  must 
never  be  allowed  to  bite  them,  of  course.  You  can 
wound  a  truffle  as  you  can  everything  else." 

Mason  looked  off  into  space  and  the  Colonel  bent 
his  ear.  Purviance's  diet  had  been  largely  drawn 
from  his  beloved  Chesapeake,  and  "dug-up  dead  things  " 
— as  he  called  the  subject  under  discussion — didn't 
interest  him.  He  wanted  to  laugh — came  near  it — 
then  he  suddenly  remembered  how  important  a  man 
Hodges  might  be  and  how  necessary  it  was  to  give  him 
air  space  in  which  to  float  his  pet  balloons  and  so  keep 
him  well  satisfied  with  himself. 

Mason,  the  Chicago  man,  had  no  such  scruples.  He 
had  twice  as  much  money  as  Hodges,  four  times  his 
digestion  and  ten  times  his  common -sense. 

"Send  that  dish  back  here,  Breen,"  Mason  cried  out 
in  a  clear  voice — so  loud  that  Parkins,  winged  by  the 
shot,  retraced  his  steps.  "I  want  to  see  what  Mr. 
Hodges  is  talking  about.  Never  saw  a  truffle  that  I 
know  of."  Here  he  turned  the  bits  of  raw  rubber 
over  with  his  fork.  "No.  Take  it  away.  Guess  I'll 
pass.  Hog  saw  it  first;  he  can  have  it." 

Hodges's  face  flushed,  then  he  joined  in  the  laugh. 
The  Chicago  man  was  too  valuable  a  would-be  sub- 
scriber to  quarrel  with.  And,  then,  how  impossible 
to  expect  a  person  brought  up  as  Mason  had  been  to 
understand  the  ordinary  refinements  of  civilization. 

"Rough  diamond,  Mason —  Good  fellow.  Back- 
bone of  our  country,"  Hodges  whispered  to  the  Colonel, 
who  was  sore  from  the  strain  of  repressed  hilarity. 

148 


PETER 

"A  little  coarse  now  and  then — but  that  comes  of  his 
early  life,  no  doubt." 

Hodges  waited  his  chance  and  again  launched  out; 
this  time  it  was  upon  the  various  kinds  of  wines  his 
cellar  contained — their  cost — who  had  approved  of 
them — how  impossible  it  was  to  duplicate  some  of 
them,  especially  some  Johannesburg  of  '74. 

"Forty-two  dollars  a  bottle — not  pressed  in  the  ordi- 
nary way — just  the  weight  of  the  grapes  in  the  basket 
in  which  they  are  gathered  in  the  vineyard,  and  what 
naturally  drips  through  is  caught  and  put  aside,"  etc. 

Breen  winced.  First  his  truffles  were  criticised,  and 
now  his  pet  Johannesburg  that  Parkins  was  pouring 
into  special  glasses — cooled  to  an  exact  temperature 
— part  of  a  case,  he  explained  to  Nixon,  who  sat  on 
his  right,  that  Count  Mosenheim  had  sent  to  a  friend 
here.  Something  must  be  done  to  head  Hodges  off 
or  there  was  no  telling  what  might  happen.  The 
Madeira  was  the  thing.  He  knew  that  was  all  right, 
for  Purviance  had  found  it  in  Baltimore — part  of  a 
private  cellar  belonging  some  time  in  the  past  to  either 
the  Swan  or  Thomas  families — he  could  not  remember 
which. 

The  redheads  were  now  in  order,  with  squares  of 
fried  hominy,  and  for  the  moment  Hodges  held  his 
peace.  This  was  Nixon's  opportunity,  and  he  made 
the  most  of  it.  He  had  been  born  on  the  eastern  shore 
of  Maryland  and  was  brought  up  on  canvasbacks, 
soft-shell  crabs  and  terrapin — not  to  mention  clams 
and  sheepshead.  Nixon  therefore  launched  out  on  the 

149 


PETER 

habits  of  the  sacred  bird — the  crimes  committed  by  the 
swivel-gun  in  the  hands  of  the  marketmen,  the  conse- 
quent scarcity  of  the  game  and  the  near  approach  of 
the  time  when  the  only  rare  specimens  would  be  found 
in  the  glass  cases  of  the  museums,  ending  his  talk 
with  a  graphic  description  of  the  great  wooden  platters 
of  boiling-hot  terrapin  which  were  served  to  passengers 
crossing  to  Norfolk  in  the  old  days.  The  servants 
would  split  off  the  hot  shell — this  was  turned  top  side 
down,  used  as  a  dish  and  filled  with  butter,  pepper  and 
salt,  into  which  toothsome  bits  of  the  reptile,  torn  out 
by  the  guests7  forks,  were  dipped  before  being  eaten. 

The  talk  now  caromed  from  birds,  reptiles  and  fish 
to  guns  and  tackles,  and  then  to  the  sportsmen  who 
used  them,  and  then  to  the  millionaires  who  owned  the 
largest  shares  in  the  ducking  clubs,  and  so  on  to  the 
stock  of  the  same,  and  finally  to  the  one  subject  of  the 
evening — the  one  uppermost  in  everybody's  thoughts 
which  so  far  had  not  been  touched  upon — the  Mukton 
Lode.  There  was  no  question  about  the  proper  mech- 
anism of  the  traps — the  directors  were  attending  to 
that;  the  quality  of  the  bait,  too,  seemed  all  that  could 
be  desired — that  was  Breen's  part.  How  many  mice 
were  nosing  about  was  the  question,  and  of  the  number 
how  many  would  be  inside  when  the  spring  snapped  ? 

The  Colonel,  after  a  nod  of  his  head  and  a  reas- 
suring glance  from  his  host,  took  full  charge  of  the  field, 
soaring  away  with  minute  accounts  of  the  last  inspec- 
tion of  the  mine.  He  told  how  the  "tailings"  at  Muk- 
ton City  had  panned  out  30  per  cent,  to  the  ton — with 

150 


PETER 

two  hundred  thousand  tons  in  the  dump  thrown  away 
until  the  new  smelter  was  started  and  they  could  get  rid 
of  the  sulphides;  of  what  Aetna  Cobb's  Crest  had  done 
and  Beals  Hollow  and  Morgan  Creek — all  on  the  same 
ridge,  and  was  about  launching  out  on  the  future  value 
of  Mukton  Lode  when  Mason  broke  the  silence  by 
asking  if  any  one  present  had  heard  of  a  mine  some- 
where in  Nevada  which  an  Englishman  had  bought 
and  which  had  panned  out  $1,200  to  the  ton  the  first 
week  and  not  a  cent  to  the  square  mile  ever  after- 
ward? The  Chicago  man  was  the  most  important 
mouse  of  the  lot,  and  the  tone  of  his  voice  and  his  way 
of  speaking  seemed  fraught  with  a  purpose. 

Breen  leaned  forward  in  rapt  attention,  and  even 
Hodges  and  Portman  (both  of  them  were  loaded  to 
the  scuppers  with  Mukton)  stopped  talking. 

"  Slickest  game  I  ever  heard  of,"  continued  Mason. 
"Two  men  came  into  town — two  poor  prospectors,  re- 
member— ran  across  the  Englishman  at  the  hotel — told 
the  story  of  their  claim:  'Take  it  or  leave  it  after  you 
look  it  over/  they  said.  Didn't  want  but  sixty  thousand 
for  it;  that  would  give  them  thirty  thousand  apiece, 
after  which  they'd  quit  and  live  on  a  ranch.  No,  they 
wouldn't  go  with  him  to  inspect  -the  mine;  there  was 
the  map.  He  couldn't  miss  it;  man  at  the  hotel  would 
drive  him  out  there.  There  was,  of  course,  a  foot  of 
snow  on  the  ground,  which  was  frozen  hard,  but  they 
had  provided  for  that  and  had  cut  a  lot  of  cord-wood, 
intending  to  stay  till  spring.  The  Englishman  could 
have  the  wood  to  thaw  out  the  ground. 

151 


PETER 

"The  Englishman  went  and  found  everything  as  the 
two  prospectors  had  said;  thawed  out  the  soil  in  half 
a  dozen  places;  scooped  up  the  dirt  and  every  shovel- 
ful panned  out  about  twelve  hundred  to  the  ton. 
Then  he  came  back  and  paid  the  money;  that  was  the 
last  of  it.  Began  to  dig  again  in  the  spring — and  not 
a  trace  of  anything." 

"What  was  the  matter?"  asked  Breen.  So  far  his 
interest  in  mines  had  been  centred  on  the  stock. 

"Oh,  the  same  old  swindle,"  said  Mason,  looking 
around  the  table,  a  grim  smile  on  his  face — "only  in 
a  different  way." 

"Was  it  salted?"  called  out  a  man  from  the  lower 
end  of  the  table. 

"Yes,"  replied  Mason;  "not  the  mine,  but  the  cord- 
wood.  The  two  poor  prospectors  had  bored  auger 
holes  in  each  stick,  stuffed  'em  full  of  gold  dust  and 
plugged  the  openings.  It  was  the  ashes  that  panned 
out  $1,200  to  the  ton." 

Mason  was  roaring,  as  were  one  or  two  about  him. 
Portman  looked  grave,  and  so  did  Breen.  Nothing  of 
that  kind  had  ever  soiled  their  hands;  everything  with 
them  was  open  and  above-board.  They  might  start 
a  rumor  that  the  Lode  had  petered  out,  throw  an 
avalanche  of  stock  on  the  market,  knock  it  down  ten 
points,  freezing  out  the  helpless  (poor  Gilbert  had  been 
one  of  them),  buy  in  what  was  offered  and  then  declare 
an  extra  dividend,  sending  the  stock  skyward,  but  any- 
thing so  low  as —  "Oh,  very  reprehensible — scan- 
dalous in  fact." 

152 


PETER 

Hodges  was  so  moved  by  the  incident  that  he  asked 
Breen  if  he  would  not  bring  back  that  Madeira  (it  had 
been  served  now  in  the  pipe-stem  glasses  which  had 
been  crossed  in  finger-bowls).  This  he  sipped  slowly 
and  thoughtfully,  as  if  the  enormity  of  the  crime  had 
quite  appalled  him.  Mason  was  no  longer  a  "rough 
diamond,"  but  an  example  of  what  a  "Western  train- 
ing will  sometimes  do  for  a  man,"  he  whispered  under 
his  breath  to  Crossbin. 

With  the  departure  of  the  last  guest — one  or  two  of 
them  were  a  little  unsteady;  not  Mason,  we  may  be 
sure — Jack,  who  had  come  home  and  was  waiting  up- 
stairs in  his  room  for  the  feast  to  be  over,  squared 
his  shoulders,  threw  up  his  chin  and,  like  many  an- 
other crusader  bent  on  straightening  the  affairs  of  the 
world,  started  out  to  confront  his  uncle.  His  visor 
was  down,  his  lance  in  rest,  his  banner  unfurled,  the 
scarf  of  the  blessed  damosel  tied  in  double  bow-knot 
around  his  trusty  right  arm.  Both  knight  and  maid 
were  unconscious  of  the  scarf,  and  yet  if  the  truth  be 
told  it  was  Ruth's  eyes  that  had  swung  him  into  battle. 
Now  he  was  ready  to  fight;  to  renounce  the  comforts 
of  life  and  live  on  a  crust  rather  than  be  party  to  the 
crimes  that  were  being  daily  committed  under  his  very 
eyes! 

His  uncle  was  in  the  library,  having  just  bowed  out 
his  last  guest,  when  the  boy  strode  in.  About  him  were 
squatty  little  tables  holding  the  remnants  of  the  after- 
math of  the  feast — siphons  and  decanters  and  the  sam- 

153 


PETER 

pie  boxes  of  cigars — full  to  the  lid  when  Parkins  first 
passed  them  (why  fresh  cigars  out  of  a  full  box  should 
have  a  better  flavor  than  the  same  cigars  from  a  half- 
empty  one  has  always  been  a  mystery  to  the  Scribe). 

That  the  dinner  had  been  a  success  gastronomically, 
socially  and  financially,  was  apparent  from  the  beatific 
boozy  smile  that  pervaded  Breen's  face  as  he  lay  back 
in  his  easy-chair.  To  disturb  a  reverie  of  this  kind  was 
as  bad  as  riding  rough-shod  over  some  good  father 
digesting  his  first  meal  after  Lent,  but  the  boy's  purpose 
was  too  lofty  to  be  blunted  by  any  such  considerations. 
Into  the  arena  went  his  glove  and  out  rang  his  challenge. 

"What  I  have  got  to  say  to  you,  Uncle  Arthur,  breaks 
my  heart,  but  you  have  got  to  listen  to  me!  I  have 
waited  until  they  were  all  gone  to  tell  you." 

Breen  laid  his  glass  on  the  table  and  straightened 
himself  in  his  chair.  His  brain  was  reeling  from  the 
wine  he  had  taken  and  his  hand  unsteady,  but  he  still 
had  control  of  his  arms  and  legs. 

"Well,  out  with  it!     What's  it  all  about,  Jack?" 

"I  heard  this  afternoon  that  my  friend  Gilbert  was 
ruined  in  our  office.  The  presence  of  these  men  to- 
night makes  me  believe  it  to  be  true.  If  it  is  true,  I 
want  to  tell  you  that  I'll  never  enter  the  office  again 
as  long  as  I  live!" 

Breen's  eyes  flashed: 

"You'll  never  enter!  .  .  .  What  the  devil  is  the 
matter  with  you,  Jack! — are  you  drunk  or  crazy?" 

"Neither!  And  I  want  to  tell  you,  sir,  too,  that  I 
won't  be  pointed  out  as  having  anything  to  do  with 

154 


PETER 

such  a  swindling  concern  as  the  Mukton  Lode  Com- 
pany. You've  stopped  the  work  on  Gilbert's  house 
— Mr.  Morris  told  me  so — you've— 

The  older  man  sprang  from  his  seat  and  lunged 
toward  the  boy. 

"Stop  it!"  he  cried.     "Now— quick!" 

"Yes — and  youVe  just  given  a  dinner  to  the  very 
men  who  helped  steal  his  money,  and  they  sat  here 
and  laughed  about  it!  I  heard  them  as  I  came  in!" 
The  boy's  tears  were  choking  him  now. 

"Didn't  I  tell  you  to  stop,  you  idiot!"  His  fist  was 
within  an  inch  of  Jack's  nose:  "Do  you  want  me  to 
knock  your  head  off  ?  What  the  hell  is  it  your  business 
who  I  invite  to  dinner — and  what  do  you  know  about 
Mukton  Lode  ?  Now  you  go  to  bed,  and  damn  quick, 
too!  Parkins,  put  out  the  lights!" 

And  so  ended  the  great  crusade  with  our  knight 
unhorsed  and  floundering  in  the  dust.  Routed  by 
the  powers  of  darkness,  like  many  another  gallant  youth 
in  the  old  chivalric  days,  his  ideals  laughed  at,  his  re- 
forms flouted,  his  protests  ignored — and  this,  too, 
before  he  could  fairly  draw  his  sword  or  couch  his 
lance. 


155 


CHAPTER  XI 

That  Jack  hardly  closed  his  eyes  that  night,  and 
that  the  first  thing  he  did  after  opening  them  the  next 
morning  was  to  fly  to  Peter  for  comfort  and  advice, 
goes  without  saying.  Even  a  sensible,  well-balanced 
young  man — and  our  Jack,  to  the  Scribe's  great  regret, 
is  none  of  these — would  have  done  this  with  his  skin 
still  smarting  from  an  older  man's  verbal  scorching — 
especially  a  man  like  his  uncle,  provided,  of  course, 
he  had  a  friend  like  Peter  within  reach.  How  much 
more  reasonable,  therefore,  to  conclude  that  a  man  so 
quixotic  as  our  young  hero  would  seek  similar  relief. 

As  to  the  correctness  of  the  details  of  this  verbal 
scorching,  so  minutely  described  in  the  preceding 
chapter,  should  the  reader  ask  how  it  is  possible  for 
the  Scribe  to  set  down  in  exact  order  the  goings-on 
around  a  dinner-table  to  which  he  was  not  invited; 
as  well  as  the  particulars  of  a  family  row  where  only 
two  persons  participated — neither  of  whom  was  him- 
self— and  this,  too,  in  the  dead  of  night,  with  the  out- 
side doors  locked  and  the  shades  and  curtains  drawn 
— he  must  plead  guilty  without  leaving  the  prisoner's 
dock. 

And  yet  he  asks  in  all  humility — is  the  play  not 
156 


PETER 

enough  ? — or  must  he  lift  the  back-drop  and  bring  into 
view  the  net-work  of  pulleys  and  lines,  the  tanks  of 
moonlight  gas  and  fake  properties  of  papier-mache* 
that  produce  the  illusion  ?  As  a  compromise  would  it 
not  be  the  better  way  after  this  for  him  to  play  the 
Harlequin,  popping  in  and  out  at  the  unexpected  mo- 
ment, helping  the  plot  here  and  there  by  a  gesture,  a 
whack,  or  a  pirouette;  hobnobbing  with  Peter  or  Miss 
Felicia,  and  their  friends;  listening  to  Jack's  and  Ruth's 
talk,  or  following  them  at  a  distance,  whenever  his 
presence  might  embarrass  either  them  or  the  comedy? 

This  being  agreed  upon,  we  will  leave  our  hero  this 
bright  morning— the  one  succeeding  the  row  with  his 
uncle — at  the  door  of  Peter's  bank,  confident  that  Jack 
can  take  care  of  himself. 

And  the  confidence  is  not  misplaced.  Only  once 
did  the  boy's  glance  waver,  and  that  was  when  his 
eyes  sought  the  window  facing  Peter's  desk.  Some 
egg  other  than  Peter's  was  nesting  on  the  open 
ledger  spread  out  on  the  Receiving  Teller's  desk — 
not  an  ostrich  egg  of  a  head  at  all,  but  an  evenly  parted, 
well-combed,  well-slicked  brown  wig,  covering  the 
careful  pate  of  one  of  the  other  clerks  who,  in  the  good- 
ness of  his  heart,  was  filling  Peter's  place  for  the  day. 

Everybody  being  busy — too  busy  to  answer  questions 
outside  of  payments  and  deposits — Patrick,  the  porter, 
must  necessarily  conduct  the  negotiations. 

"No,  sur;  he's  not  down  to-day — "  was  the  ever- 
watchful  Patrick's  answer  to  Jack's  anxious  inquiry. 
"His  sister's  come  from  the  country  and  he  takes  a 

157 


PETER 

day  off  now  and  thin  when  she's  here.  You'll  find 
him  up  at  his  place  in  Fifteenth  Street,  I'm  thinkin'." 

Jack  bit  his  lip.  Here  was  another  complication. 
Not  to  find  Peter  at  the  Bank  meant  a  visit  to  his  rooms 
— on  his  holiday,  too — and  when  he  doubtless  wished 
to  be  alone  with  Miss  Felicia.  And  yet  how  could  he 
wait  a  moment  longer?  He  himself  had  sent  word 
to  the  office  of  Breen  &  Co.  that  he  would  not  be  there 
that  day — a  thing  he  had  never  done  before — nor  did 
he  intend  to  go  on  the  morrow — not  until  he  knew 
where  he  stood.  While  his  uncle  had  grossly  misun- 
derstood him,  and,  for  that  matter,  grossly  insulted 
him,  he  had  neither  admitted  nor  denied  the  outrage 
on  Gilbert. 

When  he  did — this  question  had  only  now  begun 
to  loom  up — where  would  he  go  and  what  would  he 
do  ?  There  was  but  little  money  due  him  at  the  office 
— and  none  would  come — until  the  next  month's  pay 
— hardly  enough,  in  any  event,  to  take  him  back  to 
his  Maryland  home,  even  if  that  refuge  were  still 
open  to  him.  What  then  would  become  of  him? 
Peter  was,  in  fact,  his  main  and  only  reliance.  Peter 
he  must  see,  and  at  once. 

Not  that  he  wavered  or  grew  faint  at  heart  when  he 
thought  of  his  defeat  the  night  before.  He  was  only 
thinking  of  his  exit  and  the  way  to  make  it.  "Always 
take  your  leave  like  a  gentleman,"  was  one  of  his 
father's  maxims.  This  he  would  try  his  best  to  ac- 
complish. 

Mrs.  McGuffey,  in  white  cap  and  snow-white  apron, 
158 


PETER 

now  that  Miss  Felicia  had  arrived,  was  the  medium 
of  communication  this  time: 

"Indeed,  they  are  both  in — this  way,  sir,  and  let 
me  have  your  hat  and  coat." 

It  was  a  delightful  party  that  greeted  the  boy.  Peter 
was  standing  on  the  hearth-rug  with  his  back  to  the 
fire,  his  coat-tails  hooked  over  his  wrists.  Miss  Felicia 
sat  by  a  small  table  pretending  to  sew.  Holker  Morris 
was  swallowed  up  in  one  of  Peter's  big  easy-chairs, 
only  the  top  of  his  distinguished  head  visible,  while  a 
little  chub  of  a  man,  gray-haired,  spectacled  and 
plainly  dressed,  was  seated  behind  him,  the  two  talk- 
ing in  an  undertone. 

1  'Why,  Breen! — why,  my  dear  boy! —  And  you 
have  a  holiday,  too  ?  How  did  you  know  I  was  home  ?  " 
cried  Peter,  extending  both  hands  in  the  joy  of  his 
greeting. 

"I  stopped  at  the  Bank,  sir." 

"Did  you? — and  who  told  you?" 

"The  janitor,  I  suppose." 

"Oh,  the  good  Patrick!  Well,  well!  Holker,  you 
remember  young  Breen." 

Holker  did  remember,  for  a  wonder,  and  extended 
one  hand  to  prove  it,  and  Felicia — but  the  boy  was 
already  bending  over  her,  all  his  respect  and  admira- 
tion in  his  eyes.  The  little  chub  of  a  man  was  now 
on  his  feet,  standing  in  an  attentive  attitude,  ready  to 
take  his  cue  from  Peter. 

"And  now,  my  boy,  turn  this  way,  and  let  me  intro- 
duce you  to  my  very  dear  friend,  Mr.  Isaac  Cohen." 

159 


PETER 

A  pudgy  hand  was  thrust  out  and  the  spectacled 
little  man,  his  eyes  on  the  boy,  said  he  was  glad  to 
know  any  friend  of  Mr.  Grayson,  and  resuming  his 
seat'  continued  his  conversation  in  still  lower  tones 
with  the  great  architect. 

Jack  stood  irresolute  for  an  instant,  not  knowing 
whether  to  make  some  excuse  for  his  evidently  inop- 
portune visit  and  return  later,  or  to  keep  his  seat  until 
the  others  had  gone.  Miss  Felicia,  who  had  not  taken 
her  gaze  from  the  lad  since  he  entered  the  room,  called 
him  to  her  side. 

"Now,  tell  me  what  you  are  all  doing  at  home,  and 
how  your  dear  aunt  is,  and — Miss  Corinne,  isn't  it? 
And  that  very  bright  young  fellow  who  came  with 
you  at  Ruth's  tea?" 

It  was  the  last  subject  that  Jack  wanted  to  discuss, 
but  he  stumbled  through  it  as  best  he  could,  and 
ended  in  hoping,  in  a  halting  tone,  that  Miss  Mac- 
Farlane  was  well. 

"Ruth!    Oh,  she  is  a  darling!    Didn't  you  think  so  ?" 

Jack  blushed  to  the  roots  of  his  hair,  but  Miss 
Felicia's  all-comprehensive  glance  never  wavered. 
This  was  the  young  man  whom  Ruth  had  been  myste- 
rious about.  She  intended  to  know  how  far  the  affair 
had  gone,  and  it  would  have  been  useless,  she  knew, 
for  Jack  to  try  to  deceive  her. 

"All  our  Southern  girls  are  lovely,"  he  answered  in 
all  sincerity. 

"And  you  like  them  better  than  the  New  York 
belles?" 

160 


PETER 

"I  don't  know  any." 

"Then  that  means  that  you  do." 

"Do  what?" 

"Do  like  them  better." 

The  boy  thought  for  a  moment. 

"Yes,  and  Miss  MacFarlane  best  of  all;  she  is 
so — so — "  the  boy  faltered — "so  sincere,  and  just  the 
kind  of  girl  you  would  trust  with  anything.  Why,  I 
told  her  all  about  myself  before  I'd  known  her  half 
an  hour." 

"Yes,  she  was  greatly  pleased."  The  match- 
making instinct  was  always  uppermost  in  Miss  Felicia's 
moves,  and  then,  again,  this  young  man  had  possi- 
bilities, his  uncle  being  rich  and  he  being  his  only 
nephew. 

"Oh,  then  she  told  you!"  The  boy's  heart  gave  a 
great  leap.  Perhaps,  after  all,  Ruth  had  not  heard — 
at  all  events  she  did  not  despise  him. 

"No,  I  told  her  myself.  The  only  thing  that  seemed 
to  worry  Ruth  was  that  you  had  not  told  her  enough. 
If  I  remember  right,  she  said  you  were  very  shy." 

"And  she  did  not  say  anything  about — "  Jack 
stopped.  He  had  not  intended  to  put  the  question 
quite  in  this  way,  although  he  was  still  in  doubt. 
Give  this  keen-eyed,  white-haired  old  lady  but  an 
inkling  of  what  was  uppermost  in  his  mind  and  he 
knew  she  would  have  its  every  detail. 

"About  what?"  Here  Miss  Felicia's  eyes  were  sud- 
denly diverted,  and  became  fastened  on  the  short  figure 
of  Mr.  Isaac  Cohen,  who  had  risen  to  his  feet  and  stood 

161 


PETER 

talking  in  the  most  confidential  way  with  Morris — 
Peter  listening  intently.  Such  phrases  as  "  Better 
make  the  columns  of  marble,"  from  Morris,  and, 
"Well,  I  will  talk  it  over  with  the  Rabbi,"  from  the 
tailor,  reached  his  ears.  Further  relief  came  when 
Miss  Felicia  rose  from  her  chair  with  her  hand  extended 
to  Morris,  who  was  already  taking  leave  of  Peter, 
and  all  danger  was  passed  when  host  and  hostess 
conducted  the  tailor  and  the  architect  to  the  door; 
Morris  bending  over  Miss  Felicia's  hand  and  kissing 
it  with  the  air  of  a  courtier  suddenly  aroused  by  the 
appearance  of  royalty  (he  had  been  completely  immersed 
in  Cohen's  talk),  and  the  tailor  bowing  to  her  on  his 
way  out  without  even  so  much  as  touching  the  tips 
of  her  fingers. 

"There,  my  dear  Breen,"  said  Peter,  when  he  had 
adjusted  his  cravat  before  the  glass  and  brushed  a  few 
stray  hairs  over  his  temples,  "that's  a  man  it  would 
do  you  an  immense  amount  of  good  to  know;  the 
kind  of  a  man  you  call  worth  while.  Not  only  does 
he  speak  three  languages,  Hebrew  being  one  of  them, 
but  he  can  talk  on  any  subject  from  Greek  temples 
to  the  raising  of  violets.  Morris  thinks  the  world  of 
him—  So  do  I." 

"Yes,  I  heard  him  say  something  about  col- 
umns." 

"Oh! — then  you  overheard!  Yes,  they  are  for  the 
new  synagogue  that  Morris  is  building.  Cohen  is 
chairman  of  the  committee." 

"And  he  is  the  banker,  too,  I  suppose?"  rejoined 
162 


PETER 

Jack,  in  a  tone  which  showed  his  lack  of  interest  in 
both  man  and  subject.  It  was  Peter's  ear  he  wanted, 
and  at  once. 

The  old  man's  eyes  twinkled:  "Banker! — not  a 
bit  of  it.  He's  a  tailor,  my  dear  boy — a  most  delightful 
gentleman  tailor,  who  works  in  the  basement  below 
us  and  who  only  yesterday  pressed  the  coat  I  have  on." 
Here  Peter  surveyed  himself  with  a  comprehensive 
glance.  "All  the  respectable  people  in  New  York 
are  not  money  mad."  Then,  seeing  Jack's  look  of 
astonishment  over  the  announcement,  he  laid  his  hand 
on  the  boy's  shoulder  and  said  with  a  twinkle  of  his  eye 
and  a  little  laugh:  "Only  one  tailor — not  nine — my  boy, 
was  required  to  make  Mr.  Cohen  a  man.  And  now 
about  yourself.  Why  are  you  not  at  work  ?  Old  fel- 
lows like  me  once  in  a  while  have  a  holiday — but 
young  fellows!  Come! — What  is  it  brings  you  here 
during  business  hours?  Anything  I  can  help  you  in? 
— anything  at  home?"  and  Peter's  eyes  bored  holes 
in  the  boy's  brain. 

Jack  glanced  at  Miss  Felicia,  who  was  arranging  the 
roses  Morris  had  brought  her,  and  then  said  in  a  half 
whisper: 

"I  have  had  a  row  with  my  uncle,  sir.  Maybe  I 
had  better  come  some  other  day,  when " 

"No — out  with  it!  Row  with  your  uncle,  eh? 
Rows  with  one's  uncles  are  too  commonplace  to  get 
mysterious  over,  and,  then,  we1  have  no  secrets.  Ten 
chances  to  one  I  shall  tell  Felicia  every  word  you  say 
after  you've  gone,  so  she  might  as  well  hear  it  at  first- 

163 


PETER 

hand.  Felicia,  this  young  fellow  is  so  thin-skinned 
he  is  afraid  you  will  laugh  at  him." 

"Oh,  he  knows  better.  I  have  just  been  telling 
him  how  charming  he  must  be  to  have  won  Miss 
MacFarlane's  good  opinion,"  rejoined  his  sister  as  she 
moved  her  work-basket  nearer  her  elbow. 

And  then,  with  mind  at  rest,  now  that  he  was  sure 
Ruth  had  not  heard,  and  with  eyes  again  blazing  as 
his  thoughts  dwelt  upon  the  outrage,  he  poured  out  his 
story,  Miss  Felicia  listening  intently,  a  curious  expres- 
sion on  her  face,  Peter  grave  and  silent,  his  gaze  now 
on  the  boy,  now  on  the  hearth-rug  on  which  he  stood. 
Only  once  did  a  flash  illumine  his  countenance;  that 
was  when  Jack  reached  that  part  of  his  narrative 
which  told  of  the  denunciation  he  had  flung  in  his 
uncle's  face  concerning  the  methods  by  which  poor 
Gilbert  had  been  ruined. 

"And  you  dared  tell  your  uncle  that,  you  young 
firebrand?" 

"Yes,  Mr.  Grayson,  I  had  to;  what  else  could  I 
say?  Don't  you  think  it  cruel  to  cheat  like  that?" 

"And  what  did  he  say?"  asked  Peter. 

"He  would  not  listen — he  swore  at  me — told  me — 
well,  he  ordered  me  out  of  the  room  and  had  the 
lights  put  out." 

"And  it  served  you  right,  you  young  dog!  Well, 
upon  my  word!  Here  you  are  without  a  dollar  in  the 
world  except  what  your  uncle  pays  you,  and  you  fly 
off  at  a  tangent  and  insult  him  in  his  own  house — and 
you  his  guest,  remember.  Well!  Well!  What  are  we 

164 


PETER 

coming  to  ?    Felicia,  did  you  ever  hear  of  such  a  per- 
formance ?  " 

Miss  Felicia  made  no  answer.  She  knew  from  her 
brother's  tone  that  there  was  not  a  drop  of  bitterness 
in  any  one  of  the  words  that  fell  from  his  lips;  she 
had  heard  him  talk  that  way  dozens  of  times  before, 
when  he  was  casting  about  for  some  means  of  letting 
the  culprit  down  the  easier.  She  even  detected  a  slight 
wrinkling  of  the  corners  of  his  mouth  as  the  denuncia- 
tion rolled  out. 

Not  so  Jack:  To  him  the  end  of  the  world  had 
come.  Peter  was  his  last  resort — that  one  so  good 
and  so  clear-headed  had  not  flared  up  at  once  over  the 
villainy  was  the  severest  blow  of  all.  Perhaps  he  was 
a  firebrand;  perhaps,  after  all,  it  was  none  of  his 
business;  perhaps — perhaps — now  that  Ruth  would  not 
blame  him,  knew  nothing,  in  fact,  of  the  disgraceful 
episode,  it  would  have  been  better  for  him  to  have 
ignored  the  whole  matter  and  taken  Garry's  advice. 

"Then  I  have  done  wrong  again,  Mr.  Grayson?" 
he  said  at  last,  in  so  pleading  a  tone  that  even  Miss 
Felicia's  reserve  was  on  the  point  of  giving  away. 

"Yes,  in  the  manner  in  which  you  acted.  Your 
father  wouldn't  have  lost  his  temper  and  called  people 
names.  Gentlemen,  my  dear  boy,  don't  do  that  sort 
of  thing.  They  make  up  their  minds  about  what  they 
want  to  do  and  then  do  it  quietly,  and,  let  me  say,  with 
a  certain  amount  of  courtesy." 

"Then,  what  must  I  do  ?"  All  the  fight  was  out  of 
the  lad  now. 

165 


PETER 

"Why,  go  back  to  your  desk  in  the  office  and  your 
very  delightful  suite  of  rooms  at  your  uncle's.  Tell 
him  you  are  sorry  you  let  your  feelings  get  the  best  of 
you;  then,  when  you  have  entirely  quieted  down,  you 
and  I  will  put  our  heads  together  and  see  what  can  be 
done  to  improve  matters.  And  that,  let  me  tell  you, 
my  dear  boy,  is  going  to  be  rather  a  difficult  thing,  for 
you  see  you  are  rather  particular  as  to  what  you  should 
and  should  not  do  to  earn  your  living."  Peter's 
wrinkles  had  now  crept  up  his  cheeks  and  were  playing 
hide  and  seek  with  the  twinkles  in  his  eyes.  "Of 
course  any  kind  of  healthy  work — such,  for  instance,  as 
hauling  a  chain  through  a  swamp,  carrying  a  level,  pros- 
pecting for  oil,  or  copper,  or  gold — all  very  respectable 
occupations  for  some  men — are  quite  impossible  in 
your  case.  But  we  will  think  it  out  and  find  something 
easier — something  that  won't  soil  your  hands,  and— 

"Please  don't,  Mr.  Grayson,"  interrupted  Jack. 
The  boy  had  begun  to  see  through  the  raillery  now. 
"I  will  do  anything  you  want  me  to  do." 

Peter  burst  into  a  laugh  and  grabbed  him  by  both 
shoulders:  "Of  course,  my  dear  boy,  you  will  do 
anything  except  what  you  believe  to  be  wrong.  That's 
right — right  as  can  be;  nobody  wants  you  to  do  any 
different,  and " 

The  opening  of  a  door  leading  into  the  hall  caused 
Peter  to  stop  in  his  harangue  and  turn  his  head.  Mrs. 
McGuffey  was  ushering  in  a  young  woman  whose 
radiant  face  was  like  a  burst  of  sunshine.  Peter 
strained  his  eyes  and  then  sprang  forward: 

166 


PETER 

"Why,  Ruth!" 

There  was  no  doubt  about  it!  That  young  woman, 
her  cheeks  like  two  June  peonies,  her  eyes  dancing, 
the  daintiest  and  prettiest  hat  in  the  world  on  her 
head,  was  already  half  across  the  room  and  close  to 
Peter's  rug  before  Jack  could  even  realize  that  he 
and  she  were  breathing  the  same  air. 

"Oh!  I  just  could  not  wait  a  minute  longer!"  she 
cried  in  a  joyous  tone.  "I  had  such  a  good  time 
yesterday,  dear  aunt  Felicia,  and —  Why! — it  is  you, 
Mr.  Breen,  and  have  you  come  to  tell  aunty  the  same 
thing?  Wasn't  it  lovely?" 

Then  Jack  said  that  it  was  lovely,  and  that  he  hadn't 
come  for  any  such  purpose — then  that  he  had — and 
then  Peter  patted  her  hand  and  told  her  she  was  the 
prettiest  thing  he  had  ever  seen  in  all  his  life,  and 
that  he  was  going  to  throw  overboard  all  his  other 
sweethearts  at  once  and  cleave  to  her  alone;  and  Miss 
Felicia  vowed  that  she  was  the  life  of  the  party;  and 
Jack  devoured  her  with  his  eyes,  his  heart  thumping 
away  at  high  pressure;  and  so  the  moments  fled  until 
the  blithesome  young  girl,  saying  she  had  not  a  minute 
to  spare,  as  she  had  to  meet  her  father,  who  would 
not  wait,  readjusted  her  wraps,  kissed  Miss  Felicia 
on  both  cheeks,  sent  another  flying  through  the  air 
toward  Peter  from  the  tips  of  her  fingers,  and  with 
Jack  as  escort — he  also  had  to  see  a  friend  who  would 
not  wait  a  minute — danced  out  of  the  room  and  so  on 
down  to  the  street. 

The  Scribe  will  not  follow  them  very  far  in  their 
167 


PETER 

walk  up-town.  Both  were  very  happy,  Jack  because 
the  scandal  he  had  been  dreading,  since  he  had  last 
looked  into  her  eyes,  had  escaped  her  ears,  and  Ruth 
because  of  all  the  young  men  she  had  met  in  her  brief 
sojourn  in  New  York  this  young  Mr.  Breen  treated  her 
with  most  consideration. 

While  the  two  were  making  their  way  through  the 
crowded  streets,  Jack  helping  her  over  the  crossings, 
picking  out  the  drier  spots  for  her  dainty  feet  to  step 
upon,  shielding  her  from  the  polluting  touch  of  the 
passing  throng,  Miss  Felicia  had  resumed  her  sewing 
— it  was  a  bit  of  lace  that  needed  a  stitch  here  and 
there — and  Peter,  dragging  a  chair  before  the  fire,  had 
thrown  himself  into  its  depths,  his  long,  thin  white 
fingers  open  fan-like  to  its  blaze. 

"You  are  just  wasting  your  time,  Peter,  over  that 
young  man,"  Miss  Felicia  said  at  last,  snipping  the 
end  of  a  thread  with  her  scissors.  "Better  buy  him 
a  guitar  with  a  broad  blue  ribbon  and  start  him  off 
troubadouring,  or,  better  still,  put  him  into  a  suit  of 
tin  armor  and  give  him  a  lance.  He  doesn't  belong 
to  this  world.  It's  just  as  well  Ruth  did  not  hear  that 
rigmarole.  Charming  manners,  I  admit — lovely,  sit- 
ting on  a  cushion  looking  up  into  some  young  girl's 
eyes,  but  he  will  never  make  his  way  here  with  those 
notions.  Why  he  should  want  to  anger  his  uncle, 
who  is  certainly  most  kind  to  him,  is  past  finding  out. 
He's  stupid,  that's  what  he  is — just  stupid!" — to  break 
with  your  bread  and  butter  and  to  defy  those  who 
could  be  of  service  to  you  being  an  unpardonable  sin 

168 


PETER 

with  Miss  Felicia.  No,  he  would  not  do  at  all  for 
Ruth. 

Peter  settled  himself  deeper  in  his  chair  and  studied 
the  cheery  blaze  between  his  outspread  fingers. 

"That's  the  very  thing  will  save  him,  Felicia." 

"What— his  manners?" 

"No — his  adorable  stupidity.  I  grant  you  he's 
fighting  windmills,  but,  then,  my  dear,  don't  forget 
that  he's  fighting — that's  something." 

"But  they  are  only  windmills,  and,  more  extraor- 
dinary still,  this  one  is  grinding  corn  to  keep  him  from 
starving,"  and  she  folded  up  her  sewing  preparatory 
to  leaving  the  room. 

Peter's  fingers  closed  tight:  "I'm  not  so  sure  of 
that,"  he  answered  gravely. 

Miss  Felicia  had  risen  from  her  seat  and  was  now 
bending  over  the  back  of  his  chair,  her  spare  sharp 
elbows  resting  on  its  edge,  her  two  hands  clasping  his 
cheeks. 

"And  are  you  really  going  to  add  this  stupid  boy  to 
your  string,  you  goose  of  a  Peter?"  she  asked  in  a 
bantering  tone,  as  her  fingers  caressed  his  temples. 
"Don't  forget  Mosenthal  and  little  Perkins,  and  the 
waiter  you  brought  home  and  fed  for  a  week,  and  sent 
away  in  your  best  overcoat,  which  he  pawned  the  next 
day;  or  the  two  boys  at  college.  Aren't  you  ever 
going  to  learn?"  and  she  leaned  forward  and  kissed 
the  top  of  his  bald  head. 

Peter's  only  reply  was  to  reach  up  and  smooth  her 
jewelled  fingers  with  his  own.  He  remembered  them 

169 


PETER 

all ;  there  was  an  excuse,  of  course,  he  reminded  her, 
for  his  action  in  each  and  every  case.  But  for  him 
Mosenthal — really  a  great  violinist — would  have  starved, 
little  Perkins  would  have  been  sent  to  the  reformatory, 
and  the  waiter  to  the  dogs.  That  none  of  them, 
except  the  two  college  boys,  had  ever  thanked  him 
for  his  assistance — a  fact  well  known  to  Miss  Felicia 
— never  once  crossed  his  mind — wouldn't  have  made 
any  difference  if  it  had. 

"But  this  young  Breen  is  worth  saving,  Felicia,"  he 
answered  at  last. 

"From  what — the  penitentiary?"  she  laughed — this 
time  with  a  slight  note  of  anger  in  her  voice. 

"No,  you  foolish  thing — much  worse." 

"From  what,  then?" 

"From  himself." 

Long  after  his  sister  had  left  the  room  Peter  kept 
his  seat  by  the  fire,  his  eyes  gazing  into  the  slumbering 
coals.  His  holiday  had  been  a  happy  one  until  Jack's 
entrance:  Morris  had  come  to  an  early  breakfast  and 
had  then  run  down  and  dragged  up  Cohen  so  that  he 
could  talk  with  him  in  comfort  and  away  from  the  smell 
of  the  tailor's  goose  and  the  noise  of  the  opening  and 
shutting  of  the  shop  door;  Miss  Felicia  had  summoned 
all  her  good  humor  and  patience  (she  did  not  always 
approve  of  Peter's  acquaintances — the  little  tailor  being 
one),  and  had  received  Cohen  as  she  would  have  done 
a  savant  from  another  country — one  whose  personal 
appearance  belied  his  intellect  but  who  on  no  account 

170 


PETER 

must  be  made  aware  of  that  fact,  and  Peter  himself 
had  spent  the  hour  before  and  after  breakfast — espe- 
cially the  hour  after,  when  the  Bank  always  claimed 
him — in  pulling  out  and  putting  back  one  book  after 
another  from  the  shelves  of  his  small  library,  reading 
a  page  here  and  a  line  there,  the  lights  and  shadows 
that  crossed  his  eager,  absorbed  face,  an  index  of  his 
enjoyment. 

All  this  had  been  spoiled  by  a  wild,  untamed  colt 
of  a  boy  whom  he  could  not  help  liking  in  spite  of  his 
peculiarities 

And  yet,  was  his  sister  not  right  ?  Why  bother  him- 
self any  more  about  a  man  so  explosive  and  so  tactless 
— and  he  was  a  man,  so  far  as  years  and  stature  went, 
who,  no  matter  what  he  might  attempt  for  his  advance- 
ment, would  as  surely  topple  it  over  as  he  would  a  house 
of  cards.  That  the  boy's  ideals  were  high,  and  his 
sincerity  beyond  question,  was  true,  but  what  use 
would  these  qualities  be  to  him  if  he  lacked  the  com- 
mon-sense to  put  them  into  practice? 

All  this  he  told  to  the  fire — first  to  one  little  heap  of 
coals — then  another — snuggling  together — and  then  to 
the  big  back-log  scarred  all  over  in  its  fight  to  keep 
everybody  warm  and  happy. 

Suddenly  his  round,  glistening  head  ceased  bobbing 
back  and  forth;  his  lips,  which  had  talked  incessantly 
without  a  sound  falling  from  them,  straightened;  his 
gesticulating  fingers  tightened  into  a  hard  knot  and 
the  old  fellow  rose  from  his  easy-chair.  He  had  made 
up  his  mind. 

171 


PETER 

Then  began  a  search  through  his  desk  in  and  out 
of  the  pigeon-holes,  under  a  heap  of  letters — most  of 
them  unanswered;  beneath  a  package  tied  with  tape, 
until  his  eyes  fell  upon  an  envelope  sealed  with  wax,  in 
which  was  embedded  the  crest  of  the  ancestors  of  the 
young  gentleman  whose  future  had  so  absorbed  his 
thoughts.  It  was  Mrs.  Breen's  acceptance  of  Miss 
Felicia's  invitation  to  Miss  MacFarlane's  tea. 

"Ah,  here  it  is!  Now  I'll  find  the  number — yes, 
864—1  thought  it  was  a  "4  "—but  I  didn't  want  to 
make  any  mistake." 

This  done,  and  the  note  with  the  number  and  street 
of  Jack's  uncle's  house  spread  out  before  him,  Peter 
squared  his  elbows,  took  a  sheet  of  paper  from  a  drawer, 
covered  it  with  half  a  dozen  lines  beginning  "My 
dear  Breen — "  enclosed  it  in  an  envelope  and  addressed 
it  to  "Mr.  John  Breen,  care  of  Arthur  Breen,  Esq.," 
etc.  This  complete,  he  affixed  the  stamp  in  the  upper 
left-hand  corner,  and  with  the  letter  fast  in  his  hand 
disappeared  in  his  bedroom,  from  which  he  emerged 
ten  minutes  later  in  full  walking  costume,  even  to  his 
buckskin  gloves  and  shiny  high  hat,  not  to  mention 
a  brand-new  silk  scarf  held  in  place  by  his  diamond 
tear-drop,  the  two  in  high  relief  above  the  lapels  of  his 
tightly  buttoned  surtout. 

"No,  Mrs.  McGuffey,"  he  said  with  a  cheery  smile 
as  he  passed  out  of  the  door  (she  had  caught  sight  of 
the  letter  and  had  stretched  out  her  hand)— No— I  am 
going  for  a  walk,  and  I'll  mail  it  myself." 


172 


CHAPTER  XII 

Whatever  the  function — whether  it  was  a  cosey  dinner 
for  the  congenial  few,  a  crowded  reception  for  the  un- 
congenial many,  or  a  coming-out  party  for  some  one 
of  the  eager-expectant  buds  just  bursting  into  bloom — 
most  of  whom  he  had  known  from  babyhood — Peter 
was  always  ready  with  his  "  Of  course  I'll  come — " 
or  "  Nothing  would  delight  me  more — "  or  the  formal 
"Mr.  Grayson  accepts  with  great  pleasure,"  etc., 
unless  the  event  should  fall  upon  a  Saturday  night; 
then  there  was  certain  to  be  a  prompt  refusal. 

Even  Miss  Felicia  recognized  this  unbreakable  en- 
gagement and  made  her  plans  accordingly.  So  did 
good  Mrs.  McGuffey,  who  selected  this  night  for  her 
own  social  outings;  and  so  did  most  of  his  intimate 
friends  who  were  familiar  with  his  habits. 

On  any  other  night  you  might,  or  you  might  not,  find 
Peter  at  home,  dependent  upon  his  various  engagements, 
but  if  you  really  wanted  to  get  hold  of  his  hand,  or  his 
ear,  or  the  whole  or  any  other  part  of  his  delightful 
body,  and  if  by  any  mischance  you  happened  to 
select  a  Saturday  night  for  your  purpose,  you  must 
search  for  him  at  the  Century.  To  spend  this  one 
evening  at  his  favorite  club  had  been  his  custom  for 

173 


PETER 

years — ever  since  he  had  been  elected  to  full  mem- 
bership— a  date  so  far  back  in  the  dim  past  that  the 
oldest  habitue  had  to  search  the  records  to  make  sure 
of  the  year,  and  this  custom  he  still  regularly  kept  up. 

That  the  quaint  old  club-house  was  but  a  stone's 
throw  from  his  own  quarters  in  Fifteenth  Street  made 
no  difference;  he  would  willingly  have  tramped  to 
Murray  Hill  and  beyond — even  as  far  as  the  big 
reservoir,  had  the  younger  and  more  progressive  ele- 
ment among  the  members  picked  the  institution  up 
bodily  and  moved  it  that  far — as  later  on  they  did. 

Not  that  he  favored  any  such  innovation:  "Move 
up-town!  Why,  my  dear  sir!"  he  protested,  when  the 
subject  was  first  mentioned,  "is  there  nothing  in  the 
polish  of  these  old  tables  and  chairs,  rubbed  bright  by 
the  elbows  of  countless  good  fellows,  that  appeals  to 
you?  Do  you  think  any  modern  varnish  can  replace 
it?  Here  I  have  sat  for  thirty  years  or  more,  and — 
please  God! — here  I  want  to  continue  to  sit." 

He  was  at  his  own  small  table  in  the  front  room 
overlooking  the  street  when  he  spoke — his  by  right  of 
long  use,  as  it  was  also  of  Morris,  MacFarlane,  Wright, 
old  Partridge  the  painter,  and  Knight  the  sculptor. 
For  years  this  group  of  Centurions,  after  circling  the 
rooms  on  meeting  nights,  criticising  the  pictures  and 
helping  themselves  to  the  punch,  had  dropped  into 
these  same  seats  by  the  side  of  Peter. 

And  these  were  not  the  only  chairs  tacitly  recognized 
as  carrying  special  privileges  by  reason  of  long  usage. 
Over  in  the  corner  between  the  two  rooms  could  be 

174 


PETER 

found  Bayard  Taylor's  chair — his  for  years,  from 
which  he  dispensed  wisdom,  adventure  and  raillery 
to  a  listening  coterie — King,  MacDonough  and  Collins 
among  them,  while  near  the  stairs,  his  great  shaggy 
head  glistening  in  the  overhead  light,  Parke  Godwin 
held  court,  with  Sterling,  Martin  and  Porter,  to  say 
nothing  of  still  older  habitues  who  in  the  years  of  their 
membership  were  as  much  a  part  of  the  fittings  of  the 
club  as  the  smoke-begrimed  portraits  which  lined  its 
walls. 

On  this  Saturday  night  he  had  stepped  into  the  club- 
house with  more  than  his  usual  briskness.  Sweeping 
a  comprehensive  glance  around  as  he  entered,  as  if 
looking  for  some  one  in  the  hall,  he  slipped  off  his  over- 
coat and  hat  and  handed  both  to  the  negro  servant  in 
charge  of  the  cloak-room. 

"George." 

"Yes,  Mr.  Grayson." 

"If  anybody  inquires  for  me  you  will  find  me  either 
on  this  floor  or  in  the  library  above.  Don't  forget, 
and  don't  make  any  mistake. 

"No,  suh — ain't  goin'  to  be  no  mistake. 

This  done,  the  old  gentleman  moved  to  the  mirror, 
and  gave  a  sidelong  glance  at  his  perfectly  appointed 
person — he  had  been  dining  at  the  Portmans',  had  left 
the  table  early,  and  was  in  full  evening  dress. 

The  inspection  proved  that  the  points  of  his  collar 
wanted  straightening  the  thousandth  part  of  an  inch, 
and  that  his  sparse  gray  locks  needed  combing  a  wee 
bit  further  toward  his  cheek  bones.  These,  with  a 

175 


PETER 

certain  rebellious  fold  in  his  necktie,  having  been 
brought  into  place,  the  guardian  of  the  Exeter  entered 
the  crowded  room,  picked  a  magazine  from  the  shelves 
and  dropped  into  his  accustomed  seat. 

Holker  Morris  and  Lagarge  now  strolled  in  and 
drawing  up  to  a  small  table  adjoining  Peter's  touched 
a  tiny  bell.  This  answered,  and  the  order  given,  the 
two  renewed  a  conversation  which  had  evidently  been 
begun  outside,  and  which  was  of  so  absorbing  a  char- 
acter that  for  a  moment  Peter's  face,  half  hidden  by  his 
book,  was  unnoticed. 

"Oh! — that's  you,  Methusaleh,  is  it!"  cried  Morris 
at  last.  "Move  over — have  something?" 

Peter  looked  up  smiling:  "Not  now,  Holker.  I  will 
later." 

Morris  kept  on  talking.  Lagarge,  his  companion — 
a  thin,  cadaverous-looking  man  with  a  big  head  and  the 
general  air  of  having  been  carved  out  of  an  old  root — 
a  great  expert  in  ceramics — listening  intently,  bobbing 
his  head  in  toy-mandarin  fashion  whenever  one  of 
Holker's  iconoclasms  cleared  the  air. 

"Suppose  they  did  pay  thirty  thousand  dollars  for 
it,"  Holker  insisted,  slapping  his  knee  with  his  out- 
spread palm.  "That  makes  the  picture  no  better  and 
no  worse.  If  it  was  mine,  and  I  could  afford  it,  I  would 
sell  it  to  anybody  who  loved  it  for  thirty  cents  rather 
than  sell  it  to  a  man  who  didn't,  for  thirty  millions. 
When  Troyon  painted  it  he  put  his  soul  into  it,  and  you 
can  no  more  tack  a  price  to  that  than  you  can  stick 
an  auction  card  on  a  summer  cloud,  or  appraise  the 

176 


PETER 

perfume  from  a  rose  garden.  It  has  no  money  value, 
Legarge,  and  never  will  have.  You  might  as  well  list 
sunsets  on  the  Stock  Exchange. 

"But  Troyon  had  to  live,  Holker,"  chimed  in  Har- 
rington, who,  with  the  freedom  accorded  every  member 
of  the  club — one  of  its  greatest  charms — had  just  joined 
the  group  and  sat  listening. 

"Yes,"  rejoined  Morris,  a  quizzical  expression 
crossing  his  face — "that  was  the  curse  of  it.  He  was 
born  a  man  and  had  a  stomach  instead  of  being  born 
a  god  without  one.  As  to  living — he  didn't  really  live — 
no  great  painter  really  lives  until  he  is  dead.  And 
that's  the  way  it  should  be — they  would  never  have 
become  immortal  with  a  box  full  of  bonds  among  their 
assets.  They  would  have  stopped  work.  Now  they 
can  rest  in  their  graves  with  the  consciousness  that  they 
have  done  their  level  best." 

"There  is  one  thing  would  lift  him  out  of  it,  or  ought 
to,"  remarked  Harrington,  with  a  glance  around  the 
circle.  "I  am,  of  course,  speaking  of  Troyon." 

"What?"  asked  Morris. 

"The  news  that  Roberts  paid  thirty  thousand  dol- 
lors  for  a  picture  for  which  the  painter  was  glad  to 
get  three  thousand  francs,"  a  reply  which  brought  a 
roar  from  the  group,  Morris  joining  in  heartily. 

The  circle  had  now  widened  to  the  rilling  of  a  dozen 
chairs,  Morris's  way  of  putting  things  being  one  of  the 
features  of  club  nights,  he,  as  usual,  dominating  the 
talk,  calling  out  "Period" — his  way  of  notifying  some 
speaker  to  come  to  a  full  stop,  whenever  he  broke  away 

177 


PETER 

from  the  facts  and  began  soaring  into  hyperbolics — 
Morgan,  Harrington  and  the  others  laughing  in  unison 
at  his  sallies. 

The  clouds  of  tobacco  smoke  grew  thicker.  The  hum 
of  conversation  louder;  especially  at  an  adjoining  table 
where  one  lean  old  Academician  in  a  velvet  skull  cap 
was  discussing  the  new  impressionistic  craze  which  had 
just  begun  to  show  itself  in  the  work  of  the  younger 
men.  This  had  gone  on  for  some  minutes  when  the 
old  man  turned  upon  them  savagely  and  began  ridicul- 
ing the  new  departure  as  a  cloak  to  hide  poor  drawing, 
an  outspoken  young  painter  asserting  in  their  defence, 
that  any  technique  was  helpful  if  it  would  kill  off  the 
snuff-box  school  in  which  the  man  under  the  skull  cap 
held  first  place. 

Morris  had  lent  an  ear  to  the  discussion  and  again 
took  up  the  cudgels. 

"You  young  fellows  are  right,"  he  cried,  twisting  his 
body  toward  their  table.  The  realists  have  had  their 
day;  they  work  a  picture  to  death;  all  of  them.  If  you 
did  but  know  it,  it  really  takes  two  men  to  paint 
a  great  picture — one  to  do  the  work  and  the  other  to 
kill  him  when  he  has  done  enough." 

"Pity  some  of  your  murderers,  Holker,  didn't  start 
before  they  stretched  their  canvases,"  laughed  Har- 
rington. 

And  so  the  hours  sped  on. 

All  this  time  Peter  had  been  listening  with  one  ear 
wide  open — the  one  nearest  the  door — for  any  sound  in 
that  direction.  French  masterpieces,  Impressionism 

178 


PETER 

and  the  rest  of  it,  did  not  interest  him  to-night.  Some- 
thing else  was  stirring  him — something  he  had  been 
hugging  to  his  heart  all  day. 

Only  the  big  and  little  coals  in  his  own  fireplace  in 
Fifteenth  Street,  and  perhaps  the  great  back-log,  be- 
side himself,  knew  the  cause.  He  had  not  taken  Miss 
Felicia  into  his  confidence — that  would  never  have 
done — might,  indeed,  have  spoilt  everything.  Even 
when  he  had  risen  from  Morris's  coterie  to  greet  Henry 
MacFarlane — Ruth's  father — his  intimate  friend  for 
years,  and  who  answered  his  hand-shake  with — "Well, 
you  old  rascal — what  makes  you  look  so  happy  ? — any- 
body left  you  a  million  ?" — even  then  he  gave  no  inkling 
of  the  amount  of  bottled  sunshine  he  was  at  the  precise 
moment  carrying  inside  his  well-groomed  body,  except 
to  remark  with  all  his  twinkles  and  wrinkles  scampering 
loose : 

"Seeing  you,  Henry—  ''  an  answer  which,  while  it 
only  excited  derision  and  a  sly  thrust  of  his  thumb  into 
Peter's  ribs,  was  nevertheless  literally  true  if  the  dis- 
tinguished engineer  did  but  know  it. 

It  was  only  when  the  hours  dragged  on  and  his  oft- 
consulted  watch  marked  ten  o'clock  that  the  merry 
wrinkles  began  to  straighten  and  the  eyes  to  wander. 

When  an  additional  ten  minutes  had  ticked  them- 
selves out,  and  then  a  five  and  then  a  ten  more,  the  old 
fellow  became  so  nervous  that  he  began  to  make  a  tour 
of  the  club-house,  even  ascending  the  stairs,  searching 
the  library  and  dining-room,  scanning  each  group  and 
solitary  individual  he  passed,  until,  thoroughly  dis- 

179 


PETER 

couraged,  he  regained  his  seat  only  to  press  a  bell 
lying  among  some  half-empty  glasses.  The  summoned 
waiter  listened  attentively,  his  head  bent  low  to  catch 
the  whispered  order,  and  then  disappeared  noise- 
lessly in  the  direction  of  the  front  door,  Peter's  fingers 
meanwhile  beating  an  impatient  staccato  on  the  arm  of 
his  chair. 

Nothing  resulting  from  this  experiment  he  at  last 
gave  up  all  hope  and  again  sought  MacFarlane  who  was 
trying  to  pound  into  the  head  of  a  brother  engineer 
some  new  theory  of  spontaneous  explosions. 

Hardly  had  he  drawn  up  a  chair  to  listen — he  was 
a  better  listener  to-night,  somehow,  than  a  talker,  when 
a  hand  was  laid  on  his  shoulder,  and  looking  up,  he  saw 
Jack  bending  over  him. 

With  a  little  cry  of  joy  Peter  sprang  to  his  feet,  both 
palms  outstretched :  "  Oh ! — you're  here  at  last !  Didn't 
I  say  nine  o'clock,  my  dear  boy,  or  am  I  wrong? 
Well,  so  you  are  here  it's  all  right."  Then  with  face 
aglow  he  turned  to  MacFarlane:  "Henry,  here's  a 
young  fellow  you  ought  to  know;  his  name's  John 
Breen,  and  he's  from  your  State." 

The  engineer  stopped  short  in  his  talk  and  ab- 
sorbed Jack  from  his  neatly  brushed  hair,  worn  long 
at  the  back  of  his  neck,  to  his  well-shod  feet,  and  held 
out  his  hand. 

"From  Maryland?  So  am  I;  I  was  raised  down 
In  Prince  George  County.  Glad  to  know  you.  Are 
you  any  connection  of  the  Breens  of  Ann  Arundle?" 

"Yes,  sir — all  my  people  came  from  Ann  Arundle. 
180 


PETER 

My  father  was  Judge  Breen,"  answered  Jack  with 
embarrassment.  He  had  not  yet  become  accustomed 
to  the  novelty  of  the  scene  around  him. 

"Now  I  know  just  where  you  belong.  My  father 
and  yours  were  friends.  I  have  often  heard  him  speak 
of  Judge  Breen.  And  did  you  not  meet  my  daughter 
at  Miss  Grayson's  the  other  day?  She  told  me  she 
had  met  a  Mr.  Breen  from  our  part  of  the  country." 

Jack's  eyes  danced.  Was  this  what  Peter  had  in- 
vited him  to  the  club  for  ?  Now  it  was  all  clear.  And 
then  again  he  had  not  said  a  word  about  his  being  in 
the  Street,  or  connected  with  it  in  any  way.  Was  there 
ever  such  a  good  Peter? 

"Oh,  yes,  sir! — and  I  hope  she  is  very  well." 

The  engineer  said  she  was  extremely  well,  never 
better  in  her  life,  and  that  he  was  delighted  to  meet  a 
son  of  his  old  friend — then,  turning  to  the  others,  im- 
mediately forgot  Jack's  existence,  and  for  the  time  being 
his  daughter,  in  the  discussion  still  going  on  around 
him. 

The  young  fellow  settled  himself  in  his  seat  and 
looked  about  him — at  the  smoke-stained  ceiling,  the 
old  portraits  and  quaint  fittings  and  furniture — more 
particularly  at  the  men.  He  would  have  liked  to 
talk  to  Ruth's  father  a  little  longer,  but  he  felt 
dazed  and  ill  at  ease — out  of  his  element,  somehow — 
although  he  remembered  the  same  kind  of  people  at 
his  father's  house,  except  that  they  wore  different 
clothes. 

But  Peter  did  not  leave  him  long  in  meditation. 
181 


PETER 

There  were  other  surprises  for  him  upstairs,  in  the  small 
dining-room  opening  out  of  the  library,  where  a  long 
table  was  spread  with  eatables  and  drinkables — salads, 
baby  sausages,  escaloped  oysters,  devilled  crabs  and 
other  dishes  dear  to  old  and  new  members.  Here 
men  were  met  standing  in  groups,  their  plates  in  their 
hands,  or  seated  at  the  smaller  tables,  when  a  siphon 
and  a  tear  bottle,  or  a  mug  of  Bass  would  be  added  to 
their  comfort. 

It  was  there  the  Scribe  met  him  for  the  second  time., 
my  first  being  the  Morris  dinner,  when  he  sat  within 
speaking  distance.  I  had  heard  of  him,  of  course,  as 
Peter's  new  prote'ge — indeed,  the  old  fellow  had  talked 
of  nothing  else,  and  so  I  was  glad  to  renew  the  ac- 
quaintance. I  found  him  to  be  like  all  other  young  fel- 
lows of  his  class — I  had  lived  among  his  people,  and 
knew — rather  shy,  with  a  certain  deferential  air  toward 
older  people — but  with  the  composure  belonging  to  un- 
conscious youth — no  fidgeting  or  fussing — modest,  un- 
assertive— his  big  brown  eyes  under  their  heavy  lashes 
studying  everything  about  him,  his  face  brightening 
when  you  addressed  him.  I  discovered,  too,  a  certain 
indefinable  charm  which  won  me  to  him  at  once. 
Perhaps  it  was  his  youth;  perhaps  it  was  a  certain 
honest  directness,  together  with  a  total  lack  of  all  affec- 
tation that  appealed  to  me,  but  certain  it  is  that  not 
many  minutes  had  passed  before  I  saw  why  Peter  liked 
him,  and  I  saw,  too,  why  he  liked  Peter. 

When  I  asked  him — we  had  found  three  empty 
seats  at  a  table — what  impressed  him  most  in  the  club, 

182 


PETER 

it  being  his  first  visit,  he  answered  in  his  simple,  direct 
way,  that  he  thought  it  was  the  note  of  good-fellowship 
everywhere  apparent,  the  men  greeting  each  other  as  if 
they  really  meant  it.  Another  feature  was  the  dress 
and  faces  of  the  members — especially  the  authors,  to 
whom  Peter  had  introduced  him,  whose  books  he  had 
read,  and  whose  personalities  he  had  heard  discussed, 
and  who,  to  his  astonishment,  had  turned  out  to  be 
shabby-looking  old  fellows  who  smoked  and  drank,  or 
played  chess,  like  other  ordinary  mortals,  and  without 
pretence  of  any  kind  so  far  as  he  could  detect. 

"Just  like  one  big  family,  isn't  it,  Mr.  Grayson?" 
the  boy  said.  "Don't  you  two  gentlemen  love  to  come 
here?" 

"Yes." 

"They  don't  look  like  very  rich  men." 

"  They're  not.  Now  and  then  a  camel  crawls  through 
but  it  is  a  tight  squeeze,"  remarked  Peter  arching  his 
gray,  bushy  eyebrows,  a  smile  hovering  about  his  lips. 

The  boy  laughed:  "Well,  then,  how  did  they  get 
here?" 

"Principally  because  they  lead  decent  lives,  are  not 
puffed  up  with  conceit,  have  creative  brains  and  put 
them  to  some  honest  use,"  answered  Peter. 

The  boy  looked  away  for  a  moment  and  remarked 
quietly  that  about  everybody  he  knew  would  fail  in 
one  or  more  of  these  qualifications.  Then  he  added: 

"And  now  tell  me,  Mr.  Grayson,  what  most  of  them 
do — that  gentleman,  for  instance,  who  is  talking  to  the 
old  man  in  the  velvet  cap." 

183 


PETER 

"That  is  General  Norton,  one  of  our  most  distin- 
guished engineers.  He  is  Consulting  Engineer  in  the 
Croton  Aqueduct  Department,  and  his  opinion  is 
sought  all  over  the  country.  He  started  life  as  a  tow- 
boy  on  the  Erie  Canal,  and  when  he  was  your  age  he 
was  keeping  tally  of  dump-cars  from  a  cut  on  the 
Pennsylvania  Railroad. 

Jack  looked  at  the  General  in  wonderment,  but  he 
was  too  much  interested  in  the  other  persons  about  him 
to  pursue  the  inquiry  any  further. 

"And  the  man  next  to  him — the  one  with  his  hand 
to  his  head?" 

"I  don't  recall  him,  but  the  Major  may." 

"That  is  Professor  Hastings  of  Yale,"  I  replied— 
"perhaps  the  most  eminent  chemist  in  this  or  any  other 
country." 

"And  what  did  he  do  when  he  was  a  boy? "asked 
young  Breen. 

"Made  pills,  I  expect,  and  washed  out  test  tubes  and 
retorts,"  interrupted  Peter,  with  a  look  on  his  face  as 
if  the  poor  professor  were  more  to  be  pitied  than  com- 
mended. 

"Did  any  of  them  dig?"  asked  the  boy. 

"What  kind  of  digging?"  inquired  Peter. 

"Well,  the  kind  you  spoke  of  the  night  you  came 
to  see  me." 

"Oh,  with  their  hands?"  cried  Peter  with  a  laugh. 
"Well,  now,  let  me  see —  "  and  his  glance  roved  about 
the  room.  "There  is  Mr.  Schlessinger,  the  Egyptol- 
ogist, but  of  course  he  was  after  mummies,  not  dirt; 

184 


PETER 

and  then  there  is — yes — that  sun-burned  young  fellow 
of  forty,  talking  to  Mr.  Eastman  Johnson;  he  has  been 
at  work  in  Yucatan  looking  for  Toltec  ruins,  because 
he  told  me  his  experience  only  a  few  nights  ago;  but 
then,  of  course,  that  can  hardly  be  said  to  be—  Oh! 
—now  I  have  it.  You  see  that  tall  man  with  side- 
whiskers,  looking  like  a  young  bank  president — my 
kind — my  boy— well,  he  started  life  with  a  pick  and 
shovel.  The  steel  point  of  the  pick  if  I  remember 
rightly,  turned  up  a  nugget  of  gold  that  made  him  rich, 
but  he  dug  all  the  same,  and  he  may  again  some  day 
—you  can't  tell." 

It  had  all  been  a  delightful  experience  for  Jack  and 
his  face  showed  it,  but  it  was  not  until  after  I  left  that 
the  story  of  why  he  had  come  late  was  told.  He  had 
started  several  times  to  explain  but  the  constant  in- 
terruption of  members  anxious  to  shake  Peter's  hand, 
had  always  prevented. 

"I  haven't  apologized  for  being  late,  sir,"  Jack  had 
said  at  last.  "It  was  long  after  ten,  I  am  afraid,  but 
I  could  not  help  it." 

"No;  what  was  the  matter?" 

"I  didn't  get  the  letter  until  half  an  hour  before  I 
reached  here." 

"Why,  I  sent  it  to  your  uncle's  house,  and  mailed  it 
myself,  just  after  you  had  gone  out  with  Miss  Mac- 
Farlane." 

"Yes,  sir;  but  I  am  not  at  my  uncle's  house  any 
more.  I  am  staying  with  Garry  Minott  in  his  rooms; 
I  have  the  sofa." 

185 


PETER 

Peter  gave  a  low  whistle. 

"And  you  have  given  up  your  desk  at  the  office  as 
well?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Bless  my  soul,  my  boy!  And  what  are  you  going 
to  do  now?" 

"I  don't  know;  but  I  will  not  go  on  as  I  have  been 
doing.  I  can't,  Mr.  Grayson,  and  you  must  not  ask 
it.  I  would  rather  sweep  the  streets.  I  have  just 
seen  poor  Charley  Gilbert  and  Mrs.  Gilbert.  He  has 
not  a  dollar  in  the  world,  and  is  going  West,  he  tells 
me." 

Peter  reflected  for  a  moment.  It  was  all  he  could 
do  to  hide  his  delight. 

"And  what  do  your  people  say?" 

"My  aunt  says  I  am  an  idiot,  and  Corinne  won't 
speak  to  me." 

"And  your  uncle?" 

"Nothing,  to  me.  He  told  Garry  that  if  I  didn't 
come  back  in  three  days  I  should  never  enter  his  house 
or  his  office  again." 

"But  you  are  going  back?    Are  you  not?" 

"No,— never.     Not  if  I  starve!" 

Peter's  eyes  were  twinkling  when  he  related  the 
conversation  to  me  the  next  day. 

"I  could  have  hugged  him,  Major,"  he  said,  when 
he  finished,  "and  I  would  if  we  had  not  been  at  the 
club." 


186 


CHAPTER  XIII 

The  Scribe  is  quite  positive  that  had  you  only  heard 
about  it  as  he  had,  even  with  the  details  elaborated, 
not  only  by  Peter,  who  was  conservatism  itself  in  his 
every  statement,  but  by  Miss  Felicia  as  well — who 
certainly  ought  to  have  known — you  would  not  have 
believed  it  possible  until  you  had  seen  it.  Even  then 
you  would  have  had  to  drop  into  one  of  Miss  Felicia's 
cretonne-upholstered  chairs — big  easy-chairs  that  fitted 
into  every  hollow  and  bone  in  your  back — looked  the 
length  of  the  uneven  porch,  run  your  astonished  eye 
down  the  damp,  water-soaked  wooden  steps  to  the 
moist  brick  pavement  below,  and  so  on  to  the  beds  of 
crocuses  blooming  beneath  the  clustering  palms  and 
orange  trees,  before  you  could  realize  (in  spite  of  the 
drifting  snow  heaped  up  on  the  door-steps  of  her  house 
outside — some  of  it  still  on  your  shoes)  that  you  were 
in  Miss  Felicia's  tropical  garden,  attached  to  Miss 
Felicia's  Geneseo  house,  and  not  in  the  back  yard  of 
some  old  home  in  the  far-off  sunny  South. 

It  was  an  old  story,  of  course,  to  Peter,  who  had  the 
easy-chair  beside  me,  and  so  it  was  to  Morris,  who  had 
helped  Miss  Felicia  carry  out  so  Utopian  a  scheme,  but 

187 


PETER 

it  had  come  to  me  as  a  complete  surprise,  and  I  was  still 
wide-eyed  and  incredulous. 

"And  what  keeps  out  the  cold?"  I  asked  Morris, 
who  was  lying  back  blowing  rings  into  the  summer 
night,  the  glow  of  an  overhead  lantern  lighting  up  his 
handsome  face. 

"Glass,"  he  laughed. 

"Where?" 

"There,  just  above  the  vines,  my  dear  Major," 
interrupted  Miss  Felicia,  pointing  upward.  "Come 
and  let  me  show  you  my  frog  pond — "  and  away  we 
went  along  the  brick  paths,  bordered  with  pots  of 
flowers,  to  a  tiny  lake  covered  with  lily-pads  and 
circled  by  water-plants. 

"I  did  not  want  a  greenhouse — I  wanted  a  back 
yard,"  she  continued,  "and  I  just  would  have  it. 
Holker  sent  his  men  up,  and  on  three  sides  we  built  a 
wall  that  looked  a  hundred  years  old — but  it  is  not 
five — and  roofed  it  over  with  glass,  and  just  where  you 
see  the  little  flight  of  stairs  is  the  heat.  That  old 
arbor  in  the  corner  has  been  here  ever  since  I  was  a 
child,  and  so  have  the  syringa  bushes  and  the  green 
box  next  the  wall.  I  wanted  them  all  the  year  round 
— not  just  for  three  or  four  months  in  the  year — and 
that  witch  Holker  said  he  could  do  it,  and  he  has. 
Half  the  weddings  in  town  have  been  begun  right  on 
that  bench,  and  when  the  lanterns  are  lighted  and  the 
fountain  turned  on  outside,  no  gentleman  ever  escapes. 
You  and  Peter  are  immune,  so  I  shaVt  waste  any  of 
my  precious  ammunition  on  you.  And  now  what  will 

188 


PETER 

you  wear  in  your  button-hole — a  gardenia,  or  some 
violets  ?  Ruth  will  be.  down  in  a  minute,  and  you 
must  look  your  prettiest." 

But  if  the  frog  pond,  damp  porch  and  old-fashioned 
garden  had  come  as  a  surprise,  what  shall  I  say  of  the 
rest  of  Miss  Felicia's  house  which  I  am  now  about  to 
inspect  under  Peter's  guidance. 

"  Here,  come  along,"  he  cried,  slipping  his  arm  through 
mine.  "You  have  had  enough  of  the  garden,  for  be- 
tween you  and  me,  my  dear  Major" — here  he  looked 
askance  at  Miss  Felicia — "I  think  it  an  admirable 
place  in  which  to  take  cold,  and  that's  why — "  and 
he  passed  his  hand  over  his  scalp — "I  always  insist 
on  wearing  my  hat  when  I  walk  here.  Mere  question 
of  imagination,  perhaps,  but  old  fellows  like  you  and 
me  should  take  no  chances — "  and  he  laughed  heartily. 

"This  room  was  my  father's,"  continued  Peter. 
"The  bookcases  have  still  some  of  the  volumes  he  loved; 
he  liked  the  low  ceiling  and  the  big  fireplace,  and  always 
wrote  here — it  was  his  library,  really.  There  opens  the 
old  drawing-room  and  next  to  it  is  Felicia's  den,  where 
she  concocts  most  of  her  deviltry,  and  the  dining-room 
beyond — and  that's  all  there  is  on  this  floor,  except  the 
kitchen,  which  you'll  hear  from  later." 

And  as  Peter  rattled  on,  telling  me  the  history  of 
this  and  that  piece  of  old  furniture,  or  portrait,  or  queer 
clock,  my  eyes  were  absorbing  the  air  of  cosey  com- 
fort that  permeated  every  corner  of  the  several  rooms. 
Everything  had  the  air  of  being  used.  In  the  library 
the  chairs  were  of  leather,  stretched  into  saggy  folds 

189 


PETER 

by  many  tired  backs;  the  wide,  high  fender  fronting 
the  hearth,  though  polished  so, that  you  could  see  your 
face  in  it,  showed  the  marks  of  many  a  drying  shoe, 
while  on  the  bricks  framing  the  fireplace  could  still 
be  seen  the  scratchings  of  countless  matches. 

The  drawing-room,  too — although,  as  in  all  houses 
of  its  class  and  period,  a  thing  of  gilt  frames,  high 
mirrors  and  stiff  furniture — was  softened  by  heaps  of 
cushions,  low  stools  and  soothing  arm-chairs,  while 
Miss  Felicia's  own  particular  room  was  so  veritable  a 
symphony  in  chintz,  white  paint  and  old  mahogany, 
with  cubby-holes  crammed  with  knickknacks,  its  walls 
hung  with  rare  etchings;  pots  of  flowers  everywhere 
and  the  shelves  and  mantels  crowded  with  photographs 
of  princes,  ambassadors,  grand  dukes,  grand  ladies, 
flossy-headed  children,  chubby-cheeked  babies  (all 
souvenirs  of  her  varied  and  busy  life),  that  it  was  some 
minutes  before  I  could  throw  myself  into  one  of  her 
heavenly  arm-chairs,  there  to  be  rested  as  I  had  never 
been  before,  and  never  expect  to  be  again. 

It  being  Peter's  winter  holiday,  he  and  Morris  had 
stopped  over  on  their  way  down  from  Buffalo,  where 
Holker  had  spoken  at  a  public  dinner.  The  other 
present  and  expected  guests  were  Ruth  MacFarlane, 
who  was  already  upstairs;  her  father,  Henry  Mac- 
Farlane, who  was  to  arrive  by  the  next  train,  and 
last  and  by  no  means  lest,  his  confidential  clerk, 
Mr.  John  Breen,  now  two  years  older  and,  it  is  to  be 
hoped,  with  considerable  more  common-sense  than 

190 


PETER 

when  he  chucked  himself  neck  and  heels  out  into  the 
cold  world.  Whether  the  expected  arrival  of  this 
young  gentleman  had  anything  to  do  with  the  length 
of  time  it  took  Ruth  to  dress,  the  Scribe  knoweth  not. 
There  is  no  counting  upon  the  whims  and  vagaries 
of  even  the  average  young  woman  of  the  day,  and  as 
Ruth  was  a  long  way  above  that  medium  grade,  and 
with  positive  ideas  of  her  own  as  to  whom  she  liked 
and  whom  she  did  not  like,  and  was,  besides,  a  most 
discreet  and  close-mouthed  young  person,  it  will  be 
just  as  well  for  us  to  watch  the  game  of  battledoor 
and  shuttlecock  still  being  played  between  Jack  and 
herself,  before  we  arrive  at  any  fixed  conclusions. 

Any  known  and  admitted  facts  connected  with  either 
one  of  the  contestants  are,  however,  in  order,  and  so 
while  we  are  waiting  for  old  Moggins,  who  drives  the 
village  'bus,  and  who  has  been  charged  by  Miss  Felicia 
on  no  account  to  omit  bringing  in  his  next  load  a  certain 
straight,  bronzed-cheeked,  well-set-up  young  man  with 
a  springy  step,  accompanied  by  a  middle-aged  gentle- 
man who  looked  like  a  soldier,  and  deliver  them  both 
with  their  attendant  baggage  at  her  snow-banked  door, 
any  data  regarding  this  same  young  man's  movements 
since  the  night  Peter  wanted  to  hug  him  for  leaving 
his  uncle's  service,  cannot  fail  to  be  of  interest. 

To  begin  then  with  the  day  on  which  Jack,  with 
Frederick,  the  second  man's  assistance,  packed  his 
belongings  and  accepted  Garry's  invitation  to  make  a 
bed  of  his  lounge. 

191 


PETER 

The  kind-hearted  Frederick  knew  what  it  was  to 
lose  a  place,  and  so  his  sympathies  had  been  all  the  more 
keen.  Parkins's  nose,  on  the  contrary,  had  risen  a  full 
degree  and  stood  at  an  angle  of  45°,  for  he  had  not  only 
heard  the  ultimatum  of  his  employer,  but  was  rather 
pleased  with  the  result.  As  for  the  others,  no  one  ever 
believed  the  boy  really  meant  it,  and  everybody — even 
the  maids  and  the  high-priced  chef — fully  expected 
Jack  would  turn  prodigal  as  soon  as  his  diet  of  husks 
had  whetted  his  appetite  for  dishes  more  nourishing 
and  more  toothsome.  But  no  one  of  them  took  account 
of  the  quality  of  the  blood  that  ran  in  the  young  man's 
veins. 

It  was  scheming  Peter  who  saved  the  day. 

"Put  that  young  fellow  to  work,  Henry,"  he  had 
said  to  MacFarlane  the  morning  after  the  three  had 
met  at  the  Century  Club. 

"What  does  he  know,  Peter?" 

"Nothing,  except  to  speak  the  truth." 

And  thus  it  had  come  to  pass  that  within  twenty-four 
hours  thereafter  the  boy  had  shaken  the  dust  of  New 
York  from  his  feet — even  to  resigning  from  the  Mag- 
nolia, and  a  day  later  was  found  bending  over  a  pine 
desk  knocked  together  by  a  hammer  and  some  ten- 
penny  nails  in  a  six-by-nine  shanty,  the  whole  situ- 
ated at  the  mouth  of  a  tunnel  half  a  mile  from  Corkles- 
ville,  where  he  was  at  work  on  the  pay-roll  of  the 
preceding  week. 

Many  things  had  helped  in  deciding  him  to  take  the 
proffered  place.  First,  Peter  had  wanted  it;  second, 

192 


PETER 

his  uncle  did  not  want  it,  Corinne  and  his  aunt  being 
furious  that  he  should  go  to  work  like  a  common  laborer, 
or — as  Garry  had  put  it — "a  shovel-spanked  dago." 
Third,  Ruth  was  within  calling  distance,  and  that 
in  itself  meant  Heaven.  Once  installed,  however,  he 
had  risen  steadily,  both  in  MacFarlane's  estimation 
and  in  the  estimation  of  his  fellow- workers;  especially 
the  young  engineers  who  were  helping  his  Chief  in  the 
difficult  task  before  him.  Other  important  changes 
had  also  taken  place  in  the  two  years:  his  body  had 
strengthened,  his  face  had  grown  graver,  his  views  of 
life  had  broadened  and,  best  of  all,  his  mind  was  at 
rest.  Of  one  thing  he  was  sure — no  confiding  young 
Gilberts  would  be  fleeced  in  his  present  occupation — 
not  if  he  knew  anything  about  it. 

Moreover,  the  outdoor  life  which  he  had  so  longed 
for  was  his  again.  On  Saturday  afternoons  and  Sun- 
days he  tramped  the  hills,  or  spent  hours  rowing  on 
the  river.  His  employer's  villa  was  also  always  open 
to  him — a  privilege  not  granted  to  the  others  in  the 
working  force.  The  old  tie  of  family  was  the  sesame. 
Judge  Breen's  son  was,  both  by  blood  and  training,  the 
social  equal  of  any  man,  and  although  the  distinguished 
engineer,  being  well  born  himself,  seldom  set  store  on 
such  things,  he  recognized  his  obligation  in  Jack's  case 
and  sought  the  first  opportunity  to  tell  him  so. 

"You  will  find  a  great  change  in  your  surroundings, 
Mr.  Breen,"  he  had  said.  "The  little  hotel  where 
you  will  have  to  put  up  is  rather  rough  and  uncom- 
fortable, but  you  are  always  welcome  at  my  home, 

193 


PETER 

and  this  I  mean,  and  I  hope  you  will  understand  it 
that  way  without  my  mentioning  it  again." 

The  boy's  heart  leaped  to  his  throat  as  he  listened, 
and  a  dozen  additional  times  that  day  his  eyes  had 
rested  on  the  clump  of  trees  which  shaded  the  roof 
sheltering  Ruth. 

That  the  exclusive  Miss  Grayson  should  now  have  in- 
vited him  to  pass  some  days  at  her  home  had  brought 
with  it  a  thrill  of  greater  delight.  Her  opinion  of  the 
boy  had  changed  somewhat.  His  willingness  to  put  up 
with  the  discomforts  of  the  village  inn — "a  truly  dread- 
ful place,"  to  quote  one  of  Miss  Felicia's  own  letters — 
and  to  continue  to  put  up  with  them  for  more  than  two 
years,  while  losing  nothing  of  his  good-humor  and 
good  manners,  had  shaken  her  belief  in  the  troubadour 
and  tin-armor  theory,  although  nothing  in  Jack's  sur- 
roundings or  in  his  prospects  for  the  future  fitted  him,  so 
far  as  she  could  see,  to  life  companionship  with  so  dear 
a  girl  as  her  beloved  Ruth — a  view  which,  of  course, 
she  kept  strictly  to  herself. 

But  she  still  continued  to  criticise  him,  at  which  Peter 
would  rub  his  hands  and  break  out  with: 

"Fine  fellow! — square  peg  in  a  square  hole  this 
time.  Fine  fellow,  I  tell  you,  Felicia!" 

He  receiving  in  reply  some  such  answer  as  : 

"Yes,  quite  lovely  in  fairy  tales,  Peter,  and  when 
you  have  taught  him — for  you  did  it,  remember — how 
to  shovel  and  clean  up  underbrush  and  split  rocks — 
and  that  just's  what  Ruth  told  me  he  was  doing  when 
she  took  a  telegram  to  her  father  which  had  come  to 

194 


PETER 

the  house — and  he  in  a  pair  of  overalls,  like  any  com- 
mon workman — what,  may  I  ask,  will  you  have  him 
doing  next  ?  Is  he  to  be  an  engineer  or  a  clerk  all 
his  life?  He  might  have  had  a  share  in  his  uncle's 
business  by  this  time  if  he  had  had  any  common-sense;" 
Peter  retorting  often  with  but  a  broad  smile  and 
that  little  gulp  of  satisfaction — something  between  a 
chuckle  and  a  sigh — which  always  escaped  him  when 
some  one  of  his  protege's  were  living  up  to  his  pet 
theories. 

And  yet  it  was  Miss  Felicia  herself  who  was  the  first 
to  welcome  the  reprobate,  even  going  to  the  front  door 
and  standing  in  the  icy  draught,  with  the  snowflakes 
whirling  about  her  pompadoured  head,  until  Jack  had 
alighted  from  the  tail-end  of  Moggins's  'bus  and,  with 
his  satchel  in  his  hand,  had  cleared  the  sidewalk  with 
a  bound  and  stood  beside  her. 

"Oh,  I'm  so  glad  to  be  here,"  Jack  had  begun,  "and 
it  was  so  good  of  you  to  want  me,"  when  a  voice  rang 
clear  from  the  top  of  the  stairs: 

"And  where's  daddy — isn't  he  coming?" 

"Oh! — how  do  you  do,  Miss  Ruth?  No;  I  am 
sorry  to  say  he  could  not  leave — that  is,  we  could  not 
persuade  him  to  leave.  He  sent  you  all  manner  of 
messages,  and  you,  too,  Miss " 

"He  isn't  coming?  Oh,  I  am  so  disappointed! 
What  is  the  matter,  is  he  ill?"  She  was  half-way 
down  the  staircase  now,  her  face  showing  how  keen  was 
her  disappointment. 

"No — nothing's  the  matter — only  we  are  arranging 
195 


PETER 

for  an  important  blast  in  a  day  or  two,  and  he  felt  he 
couldn't  be  away.  I  can  only  stay  the  night."  Jack 
had  his  overcoat  stripped  from  his  broad  shoulders 
now  and  the  two  had  reached  each  other's  hands. 

Miss  Felicia  watched  them  narrowly  out  of  her 
sharp,  kindly  eyes.  This  love-affair — if  it  were  a  love- 
affair — had  been  going  on  for  years  now  and  she 
was  still  in  the  dark  as  to  the  outcome.  There  was 
no  question  that  the  boy  was  head  over  heels  in  love 
with  the  girl — she  could  see  that  from  the  way  the 
color  mounted  to  his  cheeks  when  Ruth's  voice  rang 
out,  and  the  joy  in  his  eyes  when  they  looked  into  hers. 
How  Ruth  felt  toward  her  new  guest  was  what  she 
wanted  to  know.  This  was,  perhaps,  the  only  reason 
why  she  had  invited  him — another  thing  she  kept 
strictly  to  herself. 

But  the  two  understood  it — if  Miss  Felicia  did  not. 
There  may  be  shrewd  old  ladies  who  can  read  minds 
at  a  glance,  and  fussy  old  men  who  can  see  through 
blind  millstones,  and  who  know  it  all,  but  give  me  two 
lovers  to  fool  them  both  to  the  top  of  their  bent,  be  they 
so  minded. 

"And  now,  dear,  let  Mr.  Breen  go  to  his  room,  for 
we  dine  in  an  hour,  and  Holker  will  be  cross  as  two 
sticks  if  we  keep  it  waiting  a  minute." 

But  Holker  was  not  cross — not  when  dinner  was 
served ;  nobody  was  cross — certainly  not  Peter,  who  was 
in  his  gayest  mood;  and  certainly  not  Ruth  or  Jack, 
who  babbled  away  next  to  each  other.  Peter's  heart 
swelled  with  pride  and  satisfaction  as  he  saw  the  change 

196 


PETER 

which  two  years  of  hard  work  had  made  in  Jack — not 
only  in  his  bearing  and  in  a  certain  fearless  independ- 
ence which  had  become  a  part  of  his  personality,  but 
in  the  unmistakable  note  of  joyousness  which  flowed 
out  of  him,  so  marked  in  contrast  to  the  depression 
which  used  to  haunt  him  like  a  spectre.  Stories  of  his 
life  at  his  boarding-house — vaguely  christened  a  hotel 
by  its  landlady,  Mrs.  Hicks — bubbled  out  of  the  boy  as 
well  as  accounts  of  various  escapades  among  the  men  he 
worked  with — especially  the  younger  engineers  and 
one  of  the  foremen  who  had  rooms  next  his  own — 
all  told  with  a  gusto  and  ring  that  kept  the  table  in 
shouts  of  merriment — Morris  laughing  loudest  and 
longest,  Peter  whispering  behind  his  hand  to  Miss 
Felicia : 

"  Charming,  isn't  he  ? — and  please  note,  my  dear,  that 
none  of  the  dirt  from  his  shovel  seems  to  have  clogged 
his  wit —  "  at  which  there  was  another  merry  laugh — 
Peter's,  this  time,  his  being  the  only  voice  in  evidence. 

"And  she  is  such  fun,  Miss  Felicia"  (Mrs.  Hicks  was 
under  discussion),  called  out  Jack,  realizing  that  he 
had,  perhaps — although  unconsciously — failed  to  in- 
clude his  hostess  in  his  coterie  of  listeners.  "  You  should 
see  her  caps,  and  the  magnificent  airs  she  puts  on  when 
we  come  down  late  to  breakfast  on  Sunday  mornings." 

"And  tell  them  about  the  potatoes,"  interrupted 
Ruth. 

"Oh,  that  was  disgraceful,  but  it  really  could  not  be 
helped — we  had  greasy  fried  potatoes  until  we  could 
not  stand  them  another  day,  and  Bolton  found  them 

197 


PETER 

in  the  kitchen  late  one  night  ready  for  the  skillet  the 
next  morning,  and  filled  them  with  tooth  powder, 
and  that  ended  it." 

"I'd  have  set  you  fellows  out  on  the  sidewalk  if 
I'd  been  Mrs.  Hicks,"  laughed  Morris.  "I  know 
that  old  lady — I  used  to  stop  with  her  myself  when  I 
was  building  the  town  hall — and  she's  good  as  gold. 
And  now  tell  me  how  MacFarlane  is  getting  on — build- 
ing a  railroad,  isn't  he  ?  He  told  me  about  it,  but  I 
forget." 

"No,"  replied  Jack,  his  face  growing  suddenly 
serious  as  he  turned  toward  the  speaker;  "the  com- 
pany is  building  the  road.  We  have  only  got  a  fill 
of  half  a  mile  and  then  a  tunnel  of  a  mile  more." 

Miss  Felicia  beamed  sententiously  when  Jack  said 
"we,"  but  she  did  not  interrupt  the  speaker. 

"And  what  sort  of  cutting?"  continued  the  architect 
in  a  tone  that  showed  his  entire  familiarity  with  work 
of  the  kind. 

"  Gneiss  rock  for  eleven  hundred  feet  and  then  some 
mica  schist  that  we  have  had  to  shore  up  every  time  we 
move  our  drills,"  answered  Jack  quietly. 

"Any  cave-ins?"  Morris  was  leaning  forward  now, 
his  eyes  riveted  on  the  boy's.  What  information  he 
wanted  he  felt  sure  he  now  could  get. 

"Not  yet,  but  plenty  of  water.  We  struck  a  spring 
last  week"  (this  time  the  "we"  didn't  seem  so  pre- 
posterous) "that  came  near  drowning  us  out,  but  we 
managed  to  keep  it  under  with  a  six-inch  centrifugal; 
but  it  meant  pumping  night  and  day." 

198 


PETER 

"And  when  is  he  going  to  get  through?" 

"That  depends  on  what  is  ahead  of  us.  Our  bor- 
ings show  up  all  right — most  of  it  is  tough  gneiss — 
but  if  we  strike  gravel  or  shale  again  it  means  more 
timbering,  of  course.  Perhaps  another  year — perhaps 
a  few  months.  I  am  not  giving  you  my  own  opinion, 
for  I've  had  very  little  experience,  but  that  is  what 
Bolton  thinks — he's  second  in  command  next  to  Mr. 
MacFarlane — and  so  do  the  other  fellows  at  our  board- 
ing house." 

And  then  followed  a  discussion  on  "struts,"  roof 
timbers  and  tie-rods,  Jack  describing  in  a  modest, 
impersonal  way  the  various  methods  used  by  the 
members  of  the  staff  with  which  he  was  connected, 
Morris,  as  usual,  becoming  so  absorbed  in  the  ward- 
ing off  of  "cave-ins"  that  for  the  moment  he  forgot 
the  table,  his  hostess  and  everybody  about  him,  a 
situation  which,  while  it  delighted  Peter,  who  was 
bursting  with  pride  over  Jack,  was  beginning  to  wear 
upon  Miss  Felicia,  who  was  entirely  indifferent  as  to 
whether  the  top  covering  of  MacFarlane's  underground 
hole  fell  in  or  not. 

"There,  now,  Holker,"  she  said  with  a  smile  as  she 
laid  her  hand  on  his  coat  sleeve — "not  another  word. 
Tunnels  are  things  everybody  wants  to  get  through 
with  as  quick  as  possible — and  I'm  not  going  to  spend 
all  night  in  yours — awful  damp  places  full  of  smoke- 
No — not  another  word.  Ruth,  ask  that  young  Roebling 
next  you  to  tell  us  another  story —  No,  wait  until  we 
have  our  coffee  and  you  gentlemen  have  lighted  your 

199 


PETER 

cigars.  Perhaps,  Ruth,  you  had  better  take  Mr.  Breen 
into  the  smoking-room.  Now,  give  me  your  arm, 
Holker,  and  you  come,  too,  Major,  and  bring  Peter  with 
you  to  my  boudoir.  I  want  to  show  you  the  most  de- 
licious copy  of  Shelley  you  ever  saw.  No,  Mr.  Breen, 
Ruth  wants  you;  we  will  be  with  you  in  a  few  min- 
utes—  Then  after  the  two  had  passed  on  ahead — 
"  Look  at  them,  Major — aren't  they  a  joy,  just  to  watch  ? 
— and  aren't  you  ashamed  of  yourself  that  you  have 
wasted  your  life  ?  No  arbor  for  you !  What  would  you 
give  if  a  lovely  girl  like  that  wanted  you  all  to  herself 
by  the  side  of  my  frog  pond  ?  " 

A  shout  ahead  from  Jack,  and  a  rippling  laugh 
from  Ruth  now  floated  our  way. 

"Oh!—  Oh!—"  and  "Yes— isn't  it  wonderful 
— come  and  see  the  arbor — "  and  then  a  clatter  of 
feet  down  the  soggy  steps  and  fainter  footfalls  on  the 
moist  bricks,  ending  in  silence. 

"There!"  laughed  Miss  Felicia,  turning  toward 
us  and  clapping  her  hands — "they  have  reached  the 
arbor  and  it's  all  over,  and  now  we  will  all  go  out  on 
the  porch  for  our  coffee.  I  haven't  any  Shelley  that 
you  have  not  seen  a  dozen  times — I  just  intended  that 
surprise  to  come  to  the  boy  and  in  the  way  Ruth 
wanted  it — she  has  talked  of  nothing  else  since  she 
knew  he  was  coming.  Mighty  dangerous,  I  can  tell 
you,  that  old  bench.  Ruth  can  take  care  of  herself, 
but  that  poor  fellow  will  be  in  a  dreadful  state  if  we 
leave  them  alone  too  long.  Sit  here,  Holker,  and  tell 
me  about  the  dinner  and  what  you  said.  All  that 

200 


PETER 

Peter  could  remember  was  that  you  never  did  better, 
and  that  everybody  cheered,  and  that  the  squabs  were 
so  dry  he  couldn't  eat  them." 

But  the  Scribe  refuses  to  be  interested  in  Holker's 
talk,  however  brilliant,  or  in  Miss  Felicia's  crisp 
repartee.  His  thoughts  are  down  among  the  palms, 
where  the  two  figures  are  entering  the  arbor,  the  soft 
glow  of  half  a  dozen  lanterns  falling  upon  the  joyous 
face  of  the  beautiful  girl,  as,  with  hand  in  Jack's,  she 
leads  him  to  a  seat  beside  her  on  the  bench. 

"But  it's  like  home,"  Jack  gasped.  "Why,  you 
must  remember  your  own  garden,  and  the  porch  that 
ran  alongside  of  the  kitchen,  and  the  brick  walls — and 
just  see  how  big  it  is  and  you  never  told  me  a  word 
about  it!  Why?" 

"Oh,  because  it  would  have  spoiled  all  the  fun; 
I  was  so  afraid  daddy  would  tell  you  that  I  made  him 
promise  not  to  say  a  word;  and  nobody  else  had  seen 
it  except  Mr.  Morris,  and  he  said  torture  couldn't  drag 
it  out  of  him.  That  old  Major  that  Uncle  Peter 
thinks  so  much  of  came  near  spoiling  the  surprise, 
but  Aunt  Felicia  said  she  would  take  care  of  him  in  the 
back  of  the  house — and  she  did;  and  I  mounted  guard 
at  the  top  of  the  stairs  before  anybody  could  get  hold 
of  you.  Isn't  it  too  lovely  ? — and,  do  you  know,  there 
are  real  live  frogs  in  that  pond  and  you  can  hear  them 
croak?  And  now  tell  me  about  daddy,  and  how  he 
gets  on  without  me." 

But  Jack  was  not  ready  yet  to  talk  about  daddy, 
or  the  work,  or  anything  that  concerned  Corklesville 

201 


PETER 

and  its  tunnel — the  transition  had  been  too  sudden  and 
too  startling.  To  be  fired  from  a  gun  loaded  with 
care,  hard  work  and  anxiety — hurled  through  hours  of 
winter  travel  and  landed  at  a  dinner-table  next  some 
charming  young  woman,  was  an  experience  which  had 
occurred  to  him  more  than  once  in  the  past  two  years. 
But  to  be  thrust  still  further  into  space  until  he  reached 
an  Elysium  replete  with  whispering  fountains,  flowering 
vines  and  the  perfume  of  countless  blossoms — the  whole 
tucked  away  in  a  cosey  arbor  containing  a  seat  for  two 
— and  no  more — and  this  millions  of  miles  away,  so 
far  as  he  could  see,  from  the  listening  ear  or  watchful 
eye  of  mortal  man  or  woman — and  with  Ruth,  too — the 
tips  of  whose  fingers  were  so  many  little  shrines  for 
devout  kisses — that  was  like  having  been  transported 
into  Paradise. 

"Oh,  please  let  me  look  around  a  little,"  he  begged 
at  last.  "And  this  is  why  you  love  to  come  here?" 

"Yes— wouldn't  you?" 

"I  would  not  live  anywhere  else  if  I  could — and 
it  has  just  the  air  of  summer — and  it  feels  like  a  sum- 
mer's night,  too — as  if  the  moon  was  coming  up  some- 
where." 

Ruth's  delight  equalled  his  own;  she  must  show 
him  the  new  tulips  just  sprouting,  taking  down  a 
lantern  so  that  he  could  see  the  better;  and  he  must  see 
how  the  jessamine  was  twisted  in  and  out  the  criss- 
cross slats  of  the  trellis,  so  that  the  flowers  bloomed 
both  outside  and  in;  and  the  little  gully  in  the  flag- 
ging of  the  pavement  through  which  ran  the  overflow 

202 


PETER 

of  the  tiny  pond — till  the  circuit  of  the  garden  was 
made  and  they  were  again  seated  on  the  dangerous 
bench,  with  a  cushion  tucked  behind  her  beautiful 
shoulders. 

They  talked  of  the  tunnel  and  when  it  would  be 
finished;  and  of  the  village  people  and  whom  they 
liked  and  whom  they  didn't — and  why — and  of  Corinne, 
whose  upturned  little  nose  and  superior,  dominating 
airs  Ruth  thought  were  too  funny  for  words;  and  of 
her  recently  announced  engagement  to  Garry  Minott, 
who  had  started  for  himself  in  business  and  already 
had  a  commission  to  build  a  church  at  Elm  Crest — 
known  to  all  New  Jersey  as  Corklesville  until  the  real- 
estate  agencies  took  possession  of  its  uplands — Jack 
being  instrumental,  with  Mr.  MacFarlane's  help,  in. 
securing  him  the  order;  and  of  the  dinner  to  be  given 
next  week  at  Mrs.  Brent  Foster's  on  Washington 
Square,  to  which  they  were  both  invited,  thanks  to  Miss 
Felicia  for  Ruth's  invitation,  and  thanks  to  Peter  for 
that  of  Jack,  who,  at  Peter's  request,  had  accompanied 
him  one  afternoon  to  one  of  Mrs.  Foster's  receptions, 
where  he  had  made  so  favorable  an  impression  that  he 
was  at  once  added  to  Mrs.  Foster's  list  of  eligible  young 
men — the  same  being  a  scarce  article.  They  had  dis- 
cussed, I  say,  all  these  things  and  many  more,  in 
sentences,  the  Scribe  devoutly  hopes,  much  shorter 
than  the  one  he  has  just  written — when  in  a  casual — oh, 
so  casual  a  way — ^merely  as  a  matter  of  form — Ruth 
asked  him  if  he  really  must  go  back  to  Corklesville  in 
the  morning. 

203 


PETER 

"Yes,"  answered  Jack — " there  is  no  one  to  take 
charge  of  the  new  battery  but  myself,  and  we  have 
ten  holes  already  filled  for  blasting." 

"But  isn't  it  only  to  put  the  two  wires  together? 
Daddy  explained  it  to  me." 

"Yes — but  at  just  the  right  moment.  Half  a  minute 
too  early  might  ruin  weeks  of  work.  We  have  some 
supports  to  blow  out.  Three  charges  are  at  their 
bases — everything  must  go  off  together." 

"But  it  is  such  a  short  visit." 

Some  note  in  her  voice  rang  through  Jack's  ears  and 
down  into  his  heart.  In  all  their  intercourse — and 
it  had  been  a  free  and  untrammelled  one  so  far  as  their 
meetings  and  being  together  were  concerned — there 
was  invariably  a  barrier  which  he  could  never  pass, 
and  one  that  he  was  always  afraid  to  scale.  This 
time  her  face  was  toward  him,  the  rosy  light  bathing 
her  glorious  hair  and  the  round  of  her  dimpled  cheek. 
For  an  instant  a  half-regretful  smile  quivered  on  her 
lips,  and  then  faded  as  if  some  indrawn  sigh  had 
strangled  it. 

Jack's  heart  gave  a  bound. 

"Are  you  really  sorry  to  have  me  go,  Miss  Ruth?" 
he  asked,  searching  her  eyes. 

"Why  should  I  not  be?  Is  not  this  better  than 
Mrs.  Hicks's,  and  Aunt  Felicia  would  love  to  have  you 
stay — she  told  me  so  at  dinner." 

"But  you,  Miss  Ruth?"  He  had  moved  a  trifle 
closer — so  close  that  his  eager  fingers  almost  touched 
her  own:  "Do  you  want  me  to  stay?" 

204 


PETER 

"Why,  of  course,  we  all  want  you  to  stay.  Uncle 
Peter  has  talked  of  nothing  else  for  days." 

"But  do  you  want  me  to  stay,  Miss  Ruth?" 

She  lifted  her  head  and  looked  him  fearlessly  in  the 
eyes: 

"Yes,  I  do — now  that  you  will  have  it  that  way. 
We  are  going  to  have  a  sleigh-ride  to-morrow,  and  I 
know  you  would  love  the  open  country,  it  is  so  beau- 
tiful, and  so  is " 

"Ruth!  Ruth!  you  dear  child,"  came  a  voice — 
"are  you  two  never  coming  in? — the  coffee  is  stone 
cold." 

"Yes,  Aunt  Felicia,  right  away.  Run,  Mr.  Breen — " 
and  she  flew  up  the  brick  path. 

For  the  second  time  Miss  Felicia's  keen,  kindly 
eyes  scanned  the  young  girl's  face,  but  only  a  laugh, 
the  best  and  surest  of  masks,  greeted  her. 

"  He  thinks  it  all  lovely, "  Ruth  rippled  out.  "  Don't 
you,  Mr.  Breen?" 

"Lovely?  Why,  it  is  the  most  wonderful  place 
I  ever  saw;  I  could  hardly  believe  my  senses.  I  am 
quite  sure  old  Aunt  Hannah  is  cooking  behind  that 
door —  '  here  he  pointed  to  the  kitchen — "and  that 
poor  old  Tom  will  come  hobbling  along  in  a  minute 
with  'dat  mis'ry'  in  his  back.  How  in  the  world  you 
ever  did  it,  and  what " 

"And  did  you  hear  my  frogs?"  interrupted  his 
hostess. 

"Of  course  he  didn't,  Felicia,"  broke  in  Peter. 
"What  a  question  to  ask  a  man!  Listen  to  the  croak- 

205 


PETER 

ings  of  your  miserable  tadpoles  with  the  prettiest  girl 
in  seven  counties — in  seven  States,  for  that  matter 
— sitting  beside  him!  Oh! — you  needn't  look,  you 
minx!  If  he  heard  a  single  croak  he  ought  to  be 
ducked  in  the  puddle — and  then  packed  off  home 
soaking  wet." 

"And  that  is  what  he  is  going  to  do  himself,"  re- 
joined Ruth,  dropping  into  a  chair  which  Peter  had 
drawn  up  for  her. 

"Do  what!"  cried  Peter. 

"Pack  himself  off — going  by  the  early  train — noth- 
ing I  can  do  or  say  has  made  the  slightest  impression 
on  him,"  she  said  with  a  toss  of  her  head. 

Jack  raised  his  hands  in  protest,  but  Peter  wouldn't 
listen. 

"Then  you'll  come  back,  sir,  on  Saturday  and  stay 
until  Monday,  and  then  we'll  all  go  down  together  and 
you'll  take  Ruth  across  the  ferry  to  her  father's. 

"Thank  you,  sir,  but  I  am  afraid  I  can't.  You 
see,  it  all  depends  on  the  work — "  this  last  came  with 
a  certain  tone  of  regret. 

"But  I'll  send  MacFarlane  a  note,  and  have  you 
detailed  as  an  escort  of  one  to  bring  his  only  daugh- 
ter  " 

"It  would  not  do  any  good,  Mr.   Grayson." 

"Stop  your  nonsense,  Jack—  Peter  called  him 
so  now — "You  come  back  for  Sunday."  These  days 
with  the  boy  were  the  pleasantest  of  his  life. 

"Well,  I  would  love  to —  Here  his  eyes  sought 
Ruth — "but  we  have  an  important  blast  to  make, 

206 


PETER 

and  we  are  doing  our  best  to  get  things  into  shape 
before  the  week  is  out." 

"Well,  but  suppose  it  isn't  ready?"  demanded 
Peter. 

"But  it  will  be,"  answered  Jack  in  a  more  positive 
tone;  this  part  of  the  work  was  in  his  hands. 

"Well,  anyhow,  send  me  a  telegram." 

"I  will  send  it,  sir,  but  I  am  afraid  it  won't  help 
matters.  Miss  Ruth  knows  how  delighted  I  would  be 
to  return  here  and  see  her  safe  home." 

"Whether  she  does  or  whether  she  doesn't,"  broke 
in  Miss  Felicia,  "hasn't  got  a  single  thing  to  do 
with  it,  Peter.  You  just  go  back  to  your  work,  Mr. 
Breen,  and  look  after  your  gunpowder  plots,  or  what- 
ever you  call  them,  and  if  some  one  of  these  gentlemen 
of  elegant  leisure — not  one  of  whom  so  far  has  offered 
his  services — cannot  manage  to  escort  you  to  your 
father's  house,  Ruth,  I  will  take  you  myself.  Now 
come  inside  the  drawing-room,  every  one  of  you,  or 
you  will  all  blame  me  for  undermining  your  precious 
healths — you,  too,  Major,  and  bring  your  cigars  with 
you.  So  you  don't  drop  your  ashes  into  my  tea-caddy, 
I  don't  care  where  you  throw  them. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  of  the  second  day  when 
the  telegram  arrived,  a  delay  which  caused  no  ap- 
parent suffering  to  any  one  except,  perhaps,  Peter, 
who  wandered  about  with  a  "Nothing  from  Jack 
yet,  eh?"  A  question  which  no  one  answered,  it 
being  addressed  to  nobody  in  particular,  unless  it  was 

207 


PETER 

to  Ruth,  who  had  started  at  every  ring  of  the  door- 
bell. As  to  Miss  Felicia — she  had  already  dismissed 
the  young  man  from  her  mind. 

When  it  did  arrive  there  was  a  slight  flutter  of 
interest,  but  nothing  more;  Miss  Felicia  laying  down 
her  book,  Ruth  asking  in  indifferent  tones — even  be- 
fore the  despatch  was  opened — "Is  he  coming?"  and 
Morris,  who  was  playing  chess  with  Peter,  holding 
his  pawn  in  mid-air  until  the  interruption  was  over. 

Not  so  Peter — who  with  a  joyous  "  Didn't  I  tell 
you  the  boy  would  keep  his  promise —  "  sprang  from 
his  chair,  nearly  upsetting  the  chess-board  in  his 
eagerness  to  hear  from  Jack,  an  eagerness  shared  by 
Ruth,  whose  voice  again  rang  out,  this  time  in  an 
anxious  tone, 

"Hurry  up,  Uncle  Peter — is  he  coming?" 

Peter  made  no  answer;  he  was  staring  straight  at 
the  open  slip,  his  face  deathly  pale,  his  hand  trembling. 

"I'll  tell  you  all  about  it  in  a  minute,  dear,"  he 
said  at  last  with  a  forced  smile.  Then  he  touched 
Morris's  arm  and  the  two  left  the  room. 


208 


CHAPTER  XIV 

The  Scribe  would  willingly  omit  this  chapter.  Dying 
men,  hurrying  doctors,  improvised  stretchers  made  of 
wrenched  fence  rails;  silent,  slow-moving  throngs  fol- 
lowing limp,  bruised  bodies, — are  not  pleasant  objects 
to  write  about  and  should  be  disposed  of  as  quickly 
as  possible. 

Exactly  whose  fault  it  was  nobody  knew;  if  any  one 
did,  no  one  ever  told.  Every  precaution  had  been  taken 
each  charge  had  been  properly  placed  and  tamped;  all 
the  fulminates  inspected  and  the  connections  made  with 
the  greatest  care.  As  to  the  battery — that  was  known 
to  be  half  a  mile  away  in  the  pay  shanty,  lying  on  Jack 
Breen's  table. 

Nor  was  the  weather  unfavorable.  True,  there  had 
been  rain  the  day  before,  starting  a  general  thaw,  but 
none  of  the  downpour  had  soaked  through  the  outer 
crust  of  the  tunnel  to  the  working  force  inside  and  no 
extra  labor  had  devolved  on  the  pumps.  This,  of 
course,  upset  all  theories  as  to  there  having  been  a 
readjustment  of  surface  rock,  dangerous  sometimes,  to 
magnetic  connections. 

Then  again,  no  man  understood  tunnel  construction 
better  than  Henry  MacFarlane,  C.E.,  Member  of  the 

209 


PETER 

American  Society  of  Engineers,  Fellow  of  the  Institute 
of  Sciences,  etc.,  etc.  Nor  was  there  ever  an  engineer 
more  careful  of  his  men.  Indeed,  it  was  his  boast  that 
he  had  never  lost  a  life  by  a  premature  discharge  in  the 
twenty  years  of  his  experience.  Nor  did  the  men,  those 
who  worked  under  him — those  who  escaped  alive — come 
to  any  definite  conclusion  as  to  the  cause  of  the  catas- 
trophe: the  night  and  day  gang,  I  mean, — those  who 
breathed  the  foul  air,  who  had  felt  the  chill  of  the  clammy 
interior  and  who  were  therefore  familiar  with  the  hand- 
ling of  explosives  and  the  proper  tamping  of  the  charges 
— a  slip  of  the  steel  meaning  instantaneous  annihilation. 

The  Beast  knew  and  could  tell  if  he  chose. 

I  say  "The  Beast,"  for  that  is  what  MacFarlane's 
tunnel  was  to  me.  To  the  passer-by  and  to  the  expert, 
it  was,  of  course,  merely  a  short  cut  through  the  steep 
hills  flanking  one  end  of  the  huge  "earth  fill"  which 
MacFarlane  was  constructing  across  the  Corklesville 
brook,  and  which,  when  completed  would  form  a 
road-bed  for  future  trains;  but  to  me  it  was  always 
The  Beast. 

This  illusion  was  helped  by  its  low-browed,  rocky 
head,  crouching  close  to  the  end  of  the  "fill,"  its  length 
concealed  in  the  clefts  of  the  rocks — as  if  lying  in  wait 
for  whatever  crossed  its  path — as  well  as  its  ragged, 
half-round,  catfish  gash  of  a  mouth  from  out  of  which 
poured  at  regular  intervals  a  sickening  breath — yellow, 
blue,  greenish  often — and  from  which,  too,  often  came 
dulled  explosions,  followed  by  belchings  of  de'bris 
which  centipedes  of  cars  dragged  clear  of  its  slimy  lips. 

210 


PETER 

So  I  reiterate,  The  Beast  knew. 

Every  day  the  gang  had  bored  and  pounded  and 
wrenched,  piercing  his  body  with  nervous,  nagging 
drills;  propping  up  his  backbone,  cutting  out  tender 
bits  of  flesh,  carving — bracing — only  to  carve  again. 
He  had  tried  to  wriggle  and  twist,  but  the  mountain 
had  held  him  fast.  Once  he  had  straightened  out, 
smashing  the  tiny  cars  and  the  tugging  locomotive; 
breaking  a  leg  and  an  arm,  and  once  a  head,  but  the 
devils  had  begun  again,  boring  and  digging  and  the 
cruel  wound  was  opened  afresh.  Another  time,  after 
a  big  rain,  with  the  help  of  some  friendly  rocks  who 
had  rushed  down  to  his  help,  he  had  snapped  his  jaws 
tight  shut,  penning  the  devils  up  inside,  but  a  hundred 
others  had  wrenched  them  open,  breaking  his  teeth, 
shoring  up  his  lips  with  iron  beams,  tearing  out  what 
was  left  of  his  tongue.  He  could  only  sulk  now,  breath- 
ing hard  and  grunting  when  the  pain  was  unbearable. 
One  thought  comforted  him,  and  one  only :  Far  back  in 
his  bulk  he  knew  of  a  thin  place  in  his  hide, — so  thin, 
owing  to  a  dip  in  the  contour  of  the  hill, — that  but  a 
few  yards  of  overlying  rock  and  earth  lay  between  it  and 
the  free  air. 

Here  his  tormentors  had  stopped;  why,  he  could  not 
tell  until  he  began  to  keep  tally  of  what  had  passed  his 
mouth:  The  long  trains  of  cars  had  ceased;  so  had 
the  snorting  locomotives;  so  had  the  steam  drills. 
Curious-looking  boxes  and  kegs  were  being  passed  in, 
none  of  which  ever  came  back;  men  with  rolls  of  paper 
on  which  were  zigzag  markings  stumbled  inside,  stayed 

211 


PETER 

and  hour  and  stumbled  out  again;  these  men  wore  no 
lamps  in  their  hats  and  were  better  dressed  than  the 
others.  Then  a  huge  wooden  drum  wrapped  with  wire 
was  left  overnight  outside  his  lips  and  unrolled  the 
next  morning,  ever}7  yard  of  it  being  stretched  so  far 
down  his  throat  that  he  lost  all  track  of  it. 

On  the  following  morning  work  of  every  kind  ceased ; 
not  a  man  with  a  lamp  anywhere — and  these  The  Beast 
hated  most;  that  is,  none  that  he  could  see  or  feel. 
After  an  hour  or  more  the  head  man  arrived  and  with 
two  others  went  inside.  The  head  man  was  tall  and 
fair,  had  gray  side  whiskers  and  wore  a  slouch  hat;  the 
second  man  was  straight  and  well  built,  with  a  boyish 
face  tanned  by  the  weather.  The  third  man  was  short 
and  fat:  this  one  carried  a  plan.  Behind  the  three 
walked  five  other  men. 

All  were  talking. 

"The  dip  is  to  the  eastward,"  the  head  man  said. 
"The  uplift  ought  to  clear  things  so  we  won't  have  to 
handle  the  stuff  twice.  Hard  to  rig  derricks  on  that 
slope.  Let's  have  powder  enough,  anyhow,  Bolton." 

The  fat  man  nodded  and  consulted  his  plan  with  the 
help  of  his  eye-glasses.  Then  the  three  men  and  the 
five  men  passed  in  out  of  hearing. 

The  Beast  was  sure  now.  The  men  were  going  to 
blow  out  the  side  of  the  hill  where  his  hide  was  thinnest 
so  as  to  make  room  for  an  air-shaft. 

An  hour  later  a  gang  in  charge  of  a  red-shirted  fore- 
man who  were  shifting  a  section  of  toy  track  on  the 

212 


PETER 

"fill"  felt  the  earth  shake  under  them.  Then  came  a 
dull  roar  followed  by  a  cloud  of  yellow  smoke  mounting 
skyward  from  an  opening  high  up  on  the  hillside. 
Flashing  through  this  cloud  leaped  tongues  of  flame 
intermingled  with  rocks  and  splintered  trees.  From 
the  tunnel's  mouth  streamed  a  thin,  steel-colored  gas 
that  licked  its  way  along  the  upper  edges  of  the  open- 
ing and  was  lost  in  the  underbrush  fringing  its  upper 
lip. 

"What's  that?"  muttered  the  red-shirted  foreman— 
"that  ain't  no  blast— My  God!— they're  blowed  up!" 

He  sprang  on  a  car  and  waved  his  arms  with  all  his 
might:  "Drop  them  shovels!  Git  to  the  tunnel,  every 
man  of  ye:  here, — this  way!"  and  he  plunged  on,  the 
men  scrambling  after  him. 

The  Beast  was  a  magnet  now,  drawing  everything  to 
its  mouth.  Gangs  of  men  swarmed  up  the  side  of  the 
hill;  stumbling,  falling;  picking  themselves  up  only  to 
stumble  and  fall  again.  Down  the  railroad  tracks  swept 
a  repair  squad  who  had  been  straightening  a  switch, 
their  foreman  in  the  lead.  From  out  of  the  cabins 
bareheaded  women  and  children  ran  screaming. 

The  end  of  the  "fill"  nearest  the  tunnel  was  now 
black  with  people;  those  nearest  to  the  opening  were 
shielding  their  faces  from  the  deadly  gas.  The  roar  of 
voices  was  incessant;  some  shouted  from  sheer  excite- 
ment; others  broke  into  curses,  shaking  their  fists  at 
The  Beast;  blaming  the  management.  All  about  stood 
shivering  women  with  white  faces,  some  chewing  the 
corners  of  their  shawls  in  their  agony. 

213 


PETER 

Then  a  cry  clearer  than  the  others  soared  above  the 
heads  of  the  terror-stricken  mob  as  a  rescue  gang 
made  ready  to  enter  the  tunnel: 

"Water!  Water!  Get  a  bucket,  some  of  ye!  Ye 
can't  live  in  that  smoke  yet!  Tie  your  mouth  up  if 
you're  going  in!  Wet  it,  damn  ye! — do  ye  want  to  be 
choked  stiff!" 

A  shrill  voice  now  cut  the  air. 

"It's  the  boss  and  the  clerk  and  Mr.  Bolton  that's 
catched!" 

"Yes — and  a  gang  from  the  big  shanty;  I  seen  'em 
goin'  in,"  shouted  back  the  red-shirted  foreman. 

The  volunteers — big,  brawny  men,  who,  warned  by  the 
foreman,  had  been  binding  wet  cloths  over  their  mouths, 
now  sprang  forward,  peering  into  the  gloom.  Then 
the  sound  of  footsteps  was  heard — nearer — nearer. 
Groping  through  the  blue  haze  stumbled  a  man,  his 
shirt  sleeve  shielding  his  mouth.  On  he  came,  stagger- 
ing from  side  to  side,  reached  the  edge  of  the  mouth 
and  pitched  head-foremost  as  the  fresh  air  filled  his 
lungs.  A  dozen  hands  dragged  him  clear.  It  was 
Bolton. 

His  clothes  were  torn  and  scorched;  his  face  black- 
ened; his  left  hand  dripping  blood.  Two  of  the  shanty 
gang  were  next  hauled  out  and  laid  on  the  back  of  an 
overturned  dirt  car.  They  had  been  near  the  mouth 
when  the  explosion  came,  and  throwing  themselves  flat 
had  crawled  toward  the  opening. 

Bolton  was  still  unconscious,  but  the  two  shanty  men 
gasped  out  the  terrible  facts:  "The  boss  and  the 

214 


PETER 

clerk,  was  jes'  starting  out  when  everything  let  go"; 
they  choked;  "ther'  ain't  nothing  left  of  the  other  men. 
We  passed  the  boss  and  the  clerk;  they  was  blowed 
agin  a  car;  the  boss  was  stove  up,  the  clerk  was  crawl- 
in'  toward  him.  They'll  never  git  out  alive;  none  on 
'em.  We  fellers  was  jes'  givin'  up  when  we  see  the 
daylight  and  heared  you  a-yellin'." 

A  hush  now  fell  on  the  mass  of  people,  broken  by  the 
piercing  shriek  of  a  woman, — the  wife  of  a  shanty  man. 
She  would  have  rushed  in  had  not  some  one  held  her. 

Bolton  sat  up,  gazing  stupidly  about  him.  Part 
of  the  story  of  the  escaped  men  had  reached  his  ears. 
He  struggled  to  his  feet  and  staggerd  toward  the  opening 
of  the  tunnel.  The  red-shirted  foreman  caught  him 
under  the  armpits  and  whirled  him  back. 

"That  ain't  no  place  for  you!"  he  cried— "I'll  go!" 

A  muffled  cry  was  heard.  It  came  from  a  bystander 
lying  flat  on  his  belly  inside  the  mouth:  he  had  crawled 
in  as  far  as  he  could. 

"Here  they  come!" 

New  footfalls  grew  distinct,  whether  one  or  more  the 
listeners  could  not  make  out.  Under  the  shouts  of  the 
red-shirted  foreman  to  give  them  air,  the  throng  fell 
back. 

Out  of  the  grimy  smoke  two  figures  slowly  loomed 
up;  one  carried  the  other  on  his  back;  whether  shanty 
men  or  not,  no  one  could  tell. 

The  crowd,  no  longer  controlled  by  the  foreman, 
surged  about  the  opening.  Ready  hands  were  held  out, 
but  the  man  carrying  his  comrade  waved  them  aside 

215 


PETER 

and  staggered  on,  one  hand  steadying  his  load,  the  other 
hanging  loose. 

The  big  foreman  started  to  rush  in,  but  stopped. 
Something  in  the  burdened  man's  eye  had  checked  him ; 
it  was  as  if  a  team  were  straining  up  a  steep  hill,  making 
any  halt  fatal. 

"It's  the  boss  and  the  clerk!"  shouted  the  foreman. 
"Fall  back,  men, — fall  back,  damn  ye!" 

The  man  came  straight  on,  reached  the  lips  of  the 
opening,  lunged  heavily  to  the  right,  tried  to  steady  his 
burden  and  fell  headlong. 


216 


CHAPTER  XV 

The  street  lamps  were  already  lighted  on  the  follow- 
ing afternoon — when  Ruth,  with  Peter  and  Miss 
Felicia,  alighted  at  the  small  station  of  Corklesville. 
All  through  the  day  she  had  gone  over  in  her  mind 
the  words  of  the  despatch: 

Explosion  in  tunnel.    MacFarlane  hurt — serious — will 
recover.     Break  news  gently  to  daughter. 

Bolton 

Asst.  Engineer. 

Other  despatches  had  met  the  party  on  the  way  down; 
one  saying,  "No  change,"  signed  by  the  trained  nurse, 
and  a  second  one  from  Bolton  in  answer  to  one  of  Pe- 
ter's: "Three  men  killed — others  escaped.  MacFar- 
lane's  operation  successful.  Explosion  premature." 

Their  anxiety  only  increased :  Why  hadn't  Jack  tele- 
graphed ?  Why  leave  it  to  Bolton  ?  Why  was  there  no 
word  of  him, — and  yet  how  could  Bolton  have  known 
that  Peter  was  with  Ruth,  except  from  young  Breen. 
In  this  mortal  terror  Peter  had  wired  from  Albany:  "Is 
Breen  hurt?"  but  no  answer  had  been  received  at 
Poughkeepsie.  There  had  not  been  time  for  it,  perhaps, 
but  still  there  was  no  answer,  nor  had  his  name  been 

217 


PETER 

mentioned  in  any  of  the  other  telegrams.  That  in  itself 
was  ominous. 

This  same  question  Ruth  had  asked  herself  a  dozen 
times.  Jack  was  to  have  had  charge  of  the  battery — he 
had  told  her  so.  Was  he  one  of  the  killed  ? — why  didn't 
somebody  tell  her? — why  hadn't  Mr.  Bolton  said 
something? — why — why —  Then  the  picture  of  her 
father's  mangled  body  would  rise  before  her  and  all 
thought  of  Jack  pass  out  of  her  mind. 

As  the  train  rolled  into  the  grimy  station  she  was  the 
first  to  spring  from  the  car;  she  knew  the  way  best,  and 
the  short  cut  from  the  station  to  where  her  father  lay. 
Her  face  was  drawn;  her  eyes  bloodshot  from  restrained 
tears — all  the  color  gone  from  her  cheeks. 

"You  bring  Aunt  Felicia,  Uncle  Peter, — and  the 
bags; — I  will  go  ahead,"  she  said,  tying  her  veil  so  as  to 
shield  her  face.  "No,  I  won't  wait  for  anything." 

News  of  Ruth's  expected  arrival  had  reached  the  vil- 
lage, and  the  crowd  at  the  station  had  increased.  On 
its  inner  circle,  close  to  a  gate  leading  from  the  plat- 
form, stood  a  young  man  in  a  slouch  hat,  with  his  left 
wrist  bandaged.  The  arm  had  hung  in  a  sling  until  the 
train  rolled  in,  then  the  silk  support  had  been  slipped 
and  hidden  in  his  pocket.  Under  the  slouch  hat,  the 
white  edge  of  a  bandage  was  visible  which  the  wearer 
vainly  tried  to  conceal  by  pulling  the  hat  further  on  his 
head, — this  subterfuge  also  concealed  a  dark  scar  on 
his  temple.  Whenever  the  young  man  pressed  closer  to 
the  gate,  the  crowd  would  fall  back  as  if  to  give  him 
room.  Now  and  then  one  would  come  up,  grab  his 

218 


PETER 

well  hand  and  pat  his  shoulder  approvingly.  He 
seemed  to  be  as  much  an  object  of  interest  as  the 
daughter  of  the  injured  boss. 

When  Ruth  gained  the  gate  the  wounded  man  laid 
his  fingers  on  her  gloved  wrist.  The  girl  started  back, 
peered  into  his  face,  and  uttered  a  cry  of  relief. 

' 'Mr.  Breen!"  For  one  wild  moment  a  spirit  of 
overwhelming  joy  welled  up  in  her  heart  and  shone 
out  of  her  eyes.  Thank  God  he  was  not  dead! 

"Yes,  Miss  Ruth, — what  is  left  of  me.  I  wanted  to 
see  you  as  soon  as  you  reached  here.  You  must  not  be 
alarmed  about  your  father."  The  voice  did  not  sound 
like  Jack's. 

"Is  he  worse?  Tell  me  quick!"  she  exclaimed,  the 
old  fear  confronting  her. 

"No.  He  is  all  right,"  he  wheezed,  "and  is  going  to 
get  well.  His  left  arm  is  broken  and  his  head  badly 
cut,  but  he  is  out  of  danger.  The  doctor  told  me  so 
an  hour  ago." 

"And  you?"  she  pleaded,  clinging  to  his  proffered 
hand. 

"Oh!  I  am  all  right,  too.  The  smoke  got  into  my 
throat  so  I  croak,  but  that  is  nothing.  Why,  Mr.  Gray- 
son, — and  Miss  Felicia!  I  am  so  glad,  Miss  Ruth,  that 
you  did  not  have  to  come  alone !  This  way,  everybody." 

Without  other  words  they  hurried  into  the  carriage, 
driving  like  mad  for  the  cottage,  a  mile  away;  all  the 
worn  look  gone  from  Ruth's  face. 

"And  you're  not  hurt,  my  boy?"  asked  Peter  in  a 
trembling  voice — Jack's  well  hand  in  his  own. 

219 


PETER 

"No,  only  a  few  scratches,  sir;  that's  all.  Bolton's 
hand's  in  a  bad  way,  though;  lose  two  of  his  fingers, 
I'm  afraid." 

"And  how  did  you  escape  ?" 

"  I  don't  know.  I  got  out  the  best  way  I  could.  First 
thing  I  knew  I  was  lying  on  the  grass  and  some  one 
was  pouring  water  over  my  head;  then  they  got  me 
home  and  put  me  to  bed." 

"AndMacFarlane?" 

"Oh,  he  came  along  with  me.  I  had  to  help  him 
some." 

Peter  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief,  then  he  asked : 

"How  did  it  happen?" 

"Nobody  knows.  One  of  the  shanty  men  might 
have  dropped  a  box  of  fulminates.  Poor  fellow, — he 
never  knew;  they  could  find  nothing  of  him,"  Jack 
whispered  behind  his  hand  so  Ruth  would  not  hear. 

"But  when  did  you  get  out  of  bed?"  continued 
Peter.  He  was  less  anxious  now. 

Jack  looked  at  Ruth  and  again  lowered  his  voice; 
the  sound  of  the  carriage  preventing  its  hoarse  notes 
from  reaching  her  ears. 

"About  half  an  hour  ago,  sir;  they  don't  know  I 
have  gone,  but  I  didn't  want  anybody  to  frighten  Miss 
Ruth.  I  don't  look  so  bad,  do  I  ?  I  fixed  myself  up  as 
well  as  I  could.  I  have  got  on  Bolton's  hat;  I  couldn't 
get  mine  over  the  bandages.  My  wrist  is  the  worst — 
sprained  badly,  the  doctor  says." 

If  Ruth  heard  she  made  no  answer,  nor  did  she  speak 
during  the  ride.  Now  and  then  she  would  gaze  out  of 

220 


PETER 

the  window  and  once  her  fingers  tightened  on  Miss 
Felicia's  arm  as  she  passed  in  full  view  of  the  "fill" 
with  the  gaping  mouth  of  the  tunnel  beyond.  Miss 
Felicia  was  occupied  in  watching  Jack.  In  fact,  she 
had  not  taken  her  eyes  from  him  since  they  entered  the 
carriage.  She  saw  what  neither  Peter  nor  Ruth  had 
seen; — that  the  boy  was  suffering  intensely  from  hidden 
wounds  and  that  the  strain  was  so  great  he  was  verging 
on  a  collapse.  No  telling  what  these  foolish  Southern- 
ers will  do,  she  said  to  herself,  when  a  woman  is  to  be 
looked  after, — but  she  said  nothing  of  all  this  to  Ruth. 

When  the  carriage  stopped  and  Ruth  with  a  spring 
leaped  from  her  seat  and  bounded  upstairs  to  her 
father's  bedside,  Miss  Felicia  holding  Jack's  hand,  her 
eyes  reading  the  boy's  face,  turned  and  said  to  Peter: 

"Now  you  take  him  home  where  he  belongs  and  put 
him  to  bed;  and  don't  you  let  him  get  up  until  I  see 
him.  No — "  she  continued  in  a  more  decided  tone,  in 
answer  to  Jack's  protest — "I  won't  have  it.  You  go 
to  bed  just  as  I  tell  you — you  can  hardly  stand  now." 

"Perhaps  I  had  better,  Miss  Felicia.  I  am  a  little 
shaky,"  replied  Jack,  in  a  faint  voice,  and  the  carriage 
kept  on  its  way  to  Mrs.  Hicks's  leaving  the  good  lady 
on  MacFarlane's  porch. 

MacFarlane  was  asleep  when  Ruth,  trembling  with 
excitement,  reached  the  house.  Outside  the  sick  room, 
lighted  by  a  single  taper,  she  met  the  nurse  whose  few 
hurried  words,  spoken  with  authority,  calmed  her,  as 
Jack  had  been  unable  to  do,  and  reassured  her  mind. 

221 


PETER 

"Compound  fracture  of  the  right  arm,  Miss,"  she 
whispered,  "and  badly  bruised  about  the  head,  as 
they  all  were.  Poor  Mr.  Breen  was  the  worst.'7 

Ruth  looked  at  her  in  astonishment.  That  was  why 
he  had  not  lifted  his  hat,  she  thought  to  herself,  as  she 
tiptoed  into  the  sick  room  and  sank  to  her  knees 
beside  her  father's  bed. 

The  injured  man  opened  his  eyes,  and  his  free  hand 
moved  slowly  till  it  rested  on  his  daughter's  head. 

"I  got  an  awful  crack,  Ruth,  but  I  am  all  right  now. 
Too  bad  to  bring  you  home.  Who  came  with  you  ?  " 

"Aunt  Felicia  and  Uncle  Peter/'  she  whispered  as 
she  stroked  his  uninjured  hand. 

"Mighty  good  of  them — just  like  old  Peter.  Send 
the  old  boy  up — I  want  to  see  him." 

Ruth  made  no  answer;  her  heart  was  too  full.  That 
her  father  was  alive  was  enough. 

"I'm  not  pretty  to  look  at,  am  I,  child,  but  I'll  pull 
out;  I  have  been  hurt  before — had  a  leg  broken  once 
in  the  Virginia  mountains  when  you  were  a  baby.  The 
smoke  was  the  worst;  I  swallowed  a  lot  of  it;  and  I  am 
sore  now  all  over  my  chest.  Poor  Bolton's  badly  crip- 
pled, I  hear — and  Breen — they've  told  you  about 
Breen,  haven't  they,  daughter?"  His  voice  rose  as 
he  mentioned  the  boy's  name. 

Ruth  shook  her  head. 

"Well,  I  wouldn't  be  here  but  for  him!  He's  a 
plucky  boy.  I  will  never  forget  him  for  it;  you  mustn't 
either,"  he  continued  in  a  more  positive  tone. 

The  nurse  now  moved  to  the  bed. 
222 


PETER 

"I  would  not  talk  any  more,  Mr.  MacFarlane.  Miss 
Ruth  is  going  to  be  at  home  now  right  along  and  she 
will  hear  the  story." 

"Well,  I  won't,  nurse,  if  you  don't  want  me  to — but 
they  won't  be  able  to  tell  her  what  a  fix  we  were  in — I 
remember  everything  up  to  the  time  Breen  dragged 
me  from  under  the  dirt  car.  I  knew  right  away  what 
had  happened  and  what  we  had  to  do;  I've  been  there 
before,  but " 

"There,— that  will  do,  Mr.  MacFarlane,"  inter- 
rupted the  nurse.  "Come,  Miss  Ruth,  suppose  you  go 
to  your  room  for  a  while." 

The  girl  rose  to  her  feet. 

"You  can  come  back  as  soon  as  I  fix  your  father  for 
the  night."  She  pointed  significantly  to  the  patient's 
head,  whispering,  "He  must  not  get  excited." 

"Yes,  dear  daddy — I  will  come  back  just  as  soon  as 
I  can  get  the  dust  out  of  my  hair  and  get  brushed  up  a 
little,"  cried  Ruth  bravely,  in  the  effort  to  hide  her 
anxiety,  "and  then  Aunt  Felicia  is  downstairs." 

Once  outside  she  drew  the  nurse,  who  had  followed 
her,  to  the  window  so  as  to  be  out  of  hearing  of  the  pa- 
tient and  then  asked  breathlessly: 

"What  did  Mr.  Breen  do?" 

"I  don't  know  exactly,  but  everybody  is  talking 
about  him." 

At  this  moment  Miss  Felicia  arrived  at  the  top  of  the 
stairs:  she  had  heard  Ruth's  question  and  had  caught 
the  dazed  expression  on  the  girl's  face. 

"I  will  tell  you,  my  dear,  what  he  did,  for  I  have 
223 


PETER 

heard  every  word  of  it  from  the  servants.  The  blast 
went  off  before  he  and  your  father  had  reached  the 
opening  of  the  tunnel.  They  left  your  father  for  dead, 
then  John  Breen  crawled  back  on  his  hands  and  knees 
through  the  dreadful  smoke  until  he  reached  him,  lifted 
him  up  on  his  shoulders  and  carried  him  out  alive. 
That's  what  he  did;  and  he  is  a  big,  fine,  strong,  noble 
fellow,  and  I  am  going  to  tell  him  so  the  moment  I  get 
my  eyes  on  him.  And  that  is  not  all.  He  got  out  of 
bed  this  afternoon,  though  he  could  hardly  stand,  and 
covered  up  all  his  bruises  and  his  broken  wrist  so  you 
couldn't  see  them,  and  then  he  limped  down  to  the 
station  so  you  would  get  the  truth  about  your  father 
and  not  be  frightened.  And  now  he  is  in  a  dead  faint." 

Ruth's  eyes  flamed  and  the  color  left  her  cheeks. 
She  stretched  out  both  hands  as  if  to  keep  from  falling. 

"Saved  daddy!"  she  gasped — "Carried  him  out  on 
—  Oh !  Aunt  Felicia ! — and  I  have  been  so  mean  I  To 
think  he  got  up  out  of  bed  and — and—  Everything 
swam  before  her  eyes. 

Miss  Felicia  sprang  forward  and  caught  her  in  her 
arms. 

" Come! — none  of  this,  Child.  Pull  yourself  together 
right  away.  Get  her  some  water,  nurse, — she  has  stood 
all  she  can.  There  now,  dearie —  Ruth's  head  was  on 
her  breast  now.  "There — there —  Such  a  poor  darling, 
and  so  many  things  coming  all  at  once.  There,  dar- 
ling, put  your  head  on  my  shoulder  and  cry  it  all  out." 

The  girl  sobbed  on,  the  wrinkled  hand  patting  her 
cheek. 

224 


PETER 

"Oh,  but  you  don't  know,  aunty — -"  she  crooned. 

"Yes,  but  I  do — you  blessed  child.    I  know  it  all." 

"And  won't  somebody  go  and  help  him?  He  is  all 
alone,  he  told  me  so." 

"  Uncle  Peter  is  with  him,  dearie." 

"Yes, — but  some  one  who  can — "  she  straightened 
up —  "I  will  go,  aunty — I  will  go  now." 

"You  will  do  nothing  of  the  kind,  you  little  goose; 
you  will  stay  just  where  you  are." 

"Well,  won't  you  go,  then?  Oh,  please — please — 
aunty." 

Peter's  bald  head  now  rose  above  the  edge  of  the 
banisters.  Miss  Felicia  motioned  him  to  go  back,  but 
Ruth  heard  his  step  and  raised  her  tear-drenched  face 
half  hidden  in  her  dishevelled  hair. 

"Oh,  Uncle  Peter,  is  Jack — is  Mr.  Breen— 

Miss  Felicia's  warning  face  behind  Ruth's  own,  for 
once  reached  Peter  in  time. 

"In  his  bed  and  covered  up,  and  his  landlady,  Mrs. 
Hicks,  sitting  beside  him,"  responded  Peter  in  his 
cheeriest  tones. 

"  But  he  fainted  from  pain — and— 

"Yes,  but  that's  all  over  now,  my  dear,"  broke  in 
Miss  Felicia. 

"But  you  will  go,  anyhow — won't  you,  aunty?" 
pleaded  Ruth. 

"Certainly — just  as  soon  as  I  put  you  to  bed,  and 
that  is  just  where  you  have  got  to  go  this  very  minute," 
and  she  led  the  overwrought  trembling  girl  into  her 
room  and  shut  the  door. 

225 


PETER 

Peter  stood  for  an  instant  looking  about  him,  his 
mind  taking  in  the  situation.  Ruth  was  being  cared 
for  now,  and  so  was  MacFarlane — the  white  cap  and 
apron  of  the  noiseless  nurse  passing  in  and  out  of  the 
room  in  which  he  lay,  assured  him  of  that.  Bolton,  too, 
in  the  room  next  to  Jack's,  was  being  looked  after  by 
his  sister  who  had  just  arrived.  He,  too,  was  fairly 
comfortable,  though  a  couple  of  his  fingers  had  been 
shortened.  But  there  was  nobody  to  look  after  Jack 
— no  father,  mother,  sister — nobody.  To  send  for 
the  boy's  uncle,  or  Corinne,  or  his  aunt,  was  out  of 
the  question,  none  of  them  having  had  more  than  a 
word  with  him  since  his  departure.  Yet  Jack  needed 
attention.  The  doctor  had  just  pulled  him  out  of  one 
fainting  spell  only  to  have  him  collapse  again  when  his 
coat  was  taken  off,  and  the  bandages  were  loosened. 
He  was  suffering  greatly  and  was  by  no  means  out  of 
danger. 

If  for  the  next  hour  or  two  there  was  anything  to  be 
done  at  MacFarlane's,  Peter  was  ready  to  do  it,  but 
this  accomplished,  he  would  shoulder  his  bag  and 
camp  out  for  the  night  beside  the  boy's  bed.  He  had 
come,  indeed,  to  tell  Felicia  so,  and  he  meant  to  sleep 
there  whatever  her  protests.  He  was  preparing  him- 
self for  her  objections,  when  she  reentered  the  room. 

"How  is  young  Breen?"  Miss  Felicia  asked  in  a 
whisper,  closing  the  door  behind  her.  She  had  put 
Ruth  to  bed,  where  she  had  again  given  way  to  an  un- 
controllable fit  of  weeping. 

"Pretty  weak.    The  doctor  is  with  him  now." 
226 


PETER 

"What  did  the  fool  get  up  for?"  She  did  not  mean 
to  surrender  too  quickly  about  Jack  despite  his  hero- 
ism— not  to  Peter,  at  any  rate.  Then,  again,  she  half 
suspected  that  Ruth's  tears  were  equally  divided  be- 
tween the  rescuer  and  the  rescued. 

"He  couldn't  help  it,  I  suppose,"  answered  Peter, 
with  a  gleam  in  his  eyes — "he  was  born  that  way." 

"  Born!  What  stuff,  Peter — no  man  of  any  common- 
sense  would  have " 

"I  quite  agree  with  you,  my  dear — no  man  except  a 
gentleman.  There  is  no  telling  what  one  of  that  kind 
might  do  under  such  circumstances."  And  with  a 
wave  of  his  hand  and  a  twinkle  in  his  merry  scotch- 
terrier  eyes,  the  old  fellow  disappeared  below  the  hand- 
rail. 

Miss  Felicia  leaned  over  the  banisters: 

"Peter,  Peter"  she  called  after  him,  "where  are  you 
going?" 

"To  stay  all  night  with  Jack." 

"Well,  that's  the  most  sensible  thing  I  have  heard  of 
yet.  Will  you  take  him  a  message  from  me  ?" 

Peter  looked  up:  "Yes,  Felicia,  what  is  it?" 

"  Give  him  my  love." 


227 


CHAPTER  XVI 

Miss  Felicia  kept  her  promise  to  Ruth.  Before  that 
young  woman,  indeed,  tired  out  with  anxiety,  had 
opened  her  beautiful  eyes  the  next  morning  and  pushed 
back  her  beautiful  hair  from  her  beautiful  face — and  it 
was  still  beautiful,  despite  all  the  storms  it  had  met 
and  weathered,  the  energetic,  old  lady  had  presented 
herself  at  the  front  door  of  Mrs.  Hicks's  Boarding  Hotel 
(it  was  but  a  step  from  MacFarlane's)  and  had  sent  her 
name  to  the  young  man  in  the  third  floor  back. 

A  stout  person,  with  a  head  of  adjustable  hair  held 
in  place  by  a  band  of  black  velvet  skewered  by  a  gold 
pin,  the  whole  surmounted  by  a  flaring  mob-cap  of 
various  hues  and  dyes,  looked  Miss  Felicia  all  over  and 
replied  in  a  dubious  tone: 

"He's  had  a  bad  mash-up,  and  I  don't  think — 

"I  am  quite  aware  of  it,  my  dear  madam,  or  I 
would  not  be  here.  Now,  please  show  me  the  way  to 
Mr.  Breen's  room — my  brother  was  here  last  night 
and " 

"Oh,  the  bald-headed  gentleman?"  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Hicks.  "Such  a  dear,  kind  man;  and  it  was  as  much 
as  I  could  do  to  get  him  to  bed  and  he  a — 

But  Miss  Felicia  was  already  inside  the  sitting-room, 
228 


PETER 

her  critical  eyes  noting  its  bare,  forbidding  furnishing 
and  appointment — she  had  not  yet  let  down  her  skirts, 
the  floor  not  being  inviting.  As  each  article  passed  in 
review — the  unsteady  rocking-chairs  upholstered  in 
haircloth  and  protected  by  stringy  tidies,  the  discon- 
solate, almost  bottomless  lounge,  fly-specked  brass 
clock  and  mantel  ornaments,  she  could  not  but  recall 
the  palatial  entrance,  drawing-room,  and  boudoir  into 
which  Parkins  had  ushered  her  on  that  memorable 
afternoon  when  she  had  paid  a  visit  to  Mrs.  Arthur 
Breen — (her  "last  visit"  the  old  lady  would  say  with 
a  sly  grimace  at  Holker,  who  had  never  forgiven  "that 
pirate,  Breen,"  for  robbing  Gilbert  of  his  house). 

"And  this  is  what  this  idiot  has  got  in  exchange," 
she  said  to  herself  as  she  peered  into  the  dining-room 
beyond,  with  its  bespattered  table-cloth  flanked  by 
cheap  china  plates  and  ivory  napkin  rings — the  castors 
mounting  guard  at  either  end. 

The  entrance  of  the  lady  with  the  transferable  hair 
cut  short  her  revery. 

"Mr.  Breen  says  come  up,  ma'am,"  she  said  in  a 
subdued  voice.  It  was  astonishing  how  little  time  it 
took  for  Miss  Felicia's  personality  to  have  its  effect. 

Up  the  uncarpeted  stairs  marched  the  great  lady, 
down  an  equally  bare  hall  lined  on  either  side  by  bed- 
room doors,  some  marked  by  unblacked  shoes  others  by 
tin  trays  holding  fragments  of  late  or  early  breakfasts, 
the  flaring  cap  obsequiously  pointing  the  way  until  the 
two  had  reached  a  door  at  the  end  of  the  corridor. 

"Now  I  won't  bother  you  any  more,"  said  Miss  Fe- 
229 


PETER 

licia.  "Thank  you  very  much.  Are  you  in  here  Mr. 
Breen?"  she  called  in  a  cheery  voice  as  she  pushed 
open  the  door,  and  advanced  to  his  bedside: — "Oh, 
you  poor  fellow!  Oh,  I  am  so  sorry!" 

The  boy  lay  on  a  cot-bed  pushed  close  to  the  wall. 
His  face  was  like  chalk;  his  eyes  deep  set  in  his  head; 
his  scalp  one  criss-cross  of  bandages,  and  his  right  hand 
and  wrist  a  misshapen  lump  of  cotton  wadding  and 
splints. 

"No,  don't  move  Why,  you  did  not  look  as  bad 
as  this  yesterday,"  she  added  in  sympathetic  tones, 
patting  his  free  hand  with  her  own,  her  glance  wander- 
ing over  the  cramped  little  room  with  its  meagre  ap- 
pointments. 

Jack  smiled  faintly  and  a  light  gleamed  in  his  eyes. 
The  memory  of  yesterday  evidently  brought  no  regrets. 

"I  dared  not  look  any  other  way,"  he  answered 
faintly;  "I  was  so  afraid  of  alarming  Miss  Ruth." 
Then  after  a  pause  in  which  the  smile  and  the  gleam 
flickered  over  his  pain-tortured  face,  he  added  in  a 
more  determined  voice:  "I  am  glad  I  went,  though 
the  doctor  was  furious.  He  says  it  was  the  worst 
thing  I  could  have  done — and  thought  I  ought  to 
have  had  sense  enough  to —  But  don't  let's  talk  any 
more  about  it,  Miss  Felicia.  It  was  so  good  of  you  to 
come.  Mr.  Grayson  has  just  left.  You'd  think  he  was 
a  woman,  he  is  so  gentle  and  tender.  But  I'll  be  around 
in  a  day  or  two,  and  as  soon  as  I  can  get  on  my  feet  and 
look  less  like  a  scarecrow  than  I  do,  I  am  coming  over 
to  see  you  and  Miss  Ruth  and — yes,  and  Uncle  Peter — " 

230 


PETER 

Miss  Felicia  arched  her  eyebrows:  "Oh,  you  needn't 
look! — that's  what  I  am  going  to  call  him  after  this; 
we  settled  all  that  last  night." 

A  smile  overspread  Miss  Felicia's  face.  "Uncle 
Peter,  is  it  ?  And  I  suppose  you  will  be  calling  me  Aunt 
Felicia  next?" 

Jack  turned  his  eyes:  "That  was  just  what  I  was 
trying  to  screw  up  my  courage  to  do.  Please  let  me, 
won't  you?" 

Again  Miss  Felicia  lifted  her  eyebrows,  but  she  did 
not  say  she  would. 

"And  Ruth — what  do  you  intend  to  call  that  young 
lady?  Of  course,  without  her  permission,  as  that 
seems  to  be  the  fashion."  And  the  old  lady's  eyes 
danced  in  restrained  merriment. 

The  sufferer's  face  became  suddenly  grave;  for  an 
instant  he  did  not  answer,  then  he  said  slowly: 

"But  what  can  I  call  her  except  Miss  Ruth?" 

Miss  Felicia  laughed.  Nothing  was  so  delicious  as 
a  love  affair  which  she  could  see  into.  This  boy's 
heart  was  an  open  book.  Besides,  this  kind  of  talk 
would  take  his  mind  from  his  miseries. 

"Oh,  but  I  am  not  so  sure  of  that,"  she  rejoined,  in 
an  encouraging  tone. 

A  light  broke  out  in  Jack's  eyes:  "You  mean  that 
she  would  let  me  call  her — call  her  Ruth?" 

"  I  don't  mean  anything  of  the  kind,  you  foolish  fel- 
low. You  have  got  to  ask  her  yourself;  but  there's  no 
telling  what  she  would  not  do  for  you  now,  she's  so 
grateful  to  you  for  saving  her  father's  life." 

231 


PETER 

• 

"But  I  did  not,"  he  exclaimed,  an  expression  as  of 
acute  pain  crossing  his  brows.     "I  only  helped  him 
along.     But  she  must  not  be  grateful.     I  don't  like 
the  word.    Gratitude  hasn't  got  anything  to  do  with — 
he  did  not  finish  the  sentence. 

"But  you  did  save  his  life,  and  you  know  it,  and  I 
just  love  you  for  it,"  she  insisted,  ignoring  his  criticism 
as  she  again  smoothed  his  hand.  "You  did  a  fine, 
noble  act,  and  I  am  proud  of  you  and  I  came  to  tell 
you  so."  Then  she  added  suddenly:  "You  received  my 
message  last  night,  didn't  you  ?  Now,  don't  tell  me 
that  that  good-for-nothing  Peter  forgot  it." 

"No,  he  gave  it  to  me,  and  it  was  so  kind  of  you." 

"Well,  then  I  forgive  him.  And  now,"  here  she 
made  a  little  salaam  with  both  her  hands — "now  you 
have  Ruth's  message." 

"I  have  what?"  he  asked  in  astonishment. 

"Ruth's  message."  She  still  kept  her  face  straight 
although  her  lips  quivered  with  merriment. 

Jack  tried  to  lift  his  head:  "What  is  her  message?" 
he  asked  with  expectant  eyes — perhaps  she  had  sent 
him  a  letter! 

Miss  Felicia  tapped  her  bosom  with  her  forefinger. 

"ME!"  she  cried,  "I  am  her  message.  She  was 
so  worried  last  night  when  she  found  out  how  ill  you 
were  that  I  promised  her  to  come  and  comfort  you; 
that  is  why  it  is  ME.  And  now,  don't  you  think  you 
ought  to  get  down  on  your  knees  and  thank  her  ?  Why, 
you  don't  seem  a  bit  pleased ! " 

"And  she  sent  you  to  me — because — because — she 
232 


PETER 

was  grateful  that  I  saved  her  father's  life?"  he  asked 
in  a  bewildered  tone. 

"Of  course — why  shouldn't  she  be;  is  there  anything 
else  you  can  give  her  she  would  value  as  much  as  her 
father's  life,  you  conceited  young  Jackanapes?" 

She  had  the  pin  through  the  butterfly  now  and  was 
watching  it  squirm;  not  maliciously — she  was  never 
malicious.  He  would  get  over  the  prick,  she  knew.  It 
might  help  him  in  the  end,  really. 

"No,  I  suppose  not,"  he  replied  simply,  as  he  sank 
back  on  his  pillow  and  turned  his  bruised  face  toward 
the  wall. 

For  some  moments  he  lay  in  deep  thought.  The 
last  half-hour  in  the  arbor  under  the  palms  came  back 
to  him;  the  tones  of  Ruth's  voice;  the  casual  way  in 
which  she  returned  his  devouring  glance.  She  didn't 
love  him;  never  had  loved  him;  wouldn't  ever  love 
him.  Anybody  could  carry  another  fellow  out  on  his 
back;  wras  done  every  day  by  firemen  and  life-savers, — 
everybody,  in  fact,  who  happened  to  be  around  when 
their  services  were  most  needed.  Grateful!  Of  course 
the  rescued  people  and  their  friends  were  grateful  until 
they  forgot  all  about  it,  as  they  were  sure  to  do  the  next 
day,  or  week,  or  month.  Gratitude  was  not  what  he 
wanted.  It  was  love.  That  was  the  way  he  felt;  that 
was  the  way  he  would  always  feel.  He  who  loved  every 
hair  on  Ruth's  beautiful  head,  loved  her  wonderful 
hands,  loved  her  darling  feet,  loved  the  very  ground  on 
which  she  walked  "Gratitude!"  eh!  That  was  the 
word  his  uncle  had  used  the  day  he  slammed  the  door 

233 


PETER 

of  his  private  office  in  his  face.  "  Common  gratitude, 
damn  you,  Jack,  ought  to  put  more  sense  in  your  head," 
as  though  one  ought  to  have  been  "grateful"  for  a  seat 
at  a  gambling  table  and  two  rooms  in  a  house  sup- 
ported by  its  profits.  Garry  had  said  "gratitude," 
too,  and  so  had  Corinne,  and  all  the  rest  of  them. 
Peter  had  never  talked  gratitude;  dear  Peter,  who  had 
done  more  for  him  than  anybody  in  the  world  except 
his  own  father.  Peter  wanted  his  love  if  he  wanted 
anything,  and  that  was  what  he  was  going  to  give  him 
—big,  broad,  all-absorbing  love.  And  he  did  love 
him.  Even  his  wrinkled  hands,  so  soft  and  white, 
and  his  glistening  head,  and  his  dabs  of  gray  whiskers, 
and  his  sweet,  firm,  human  mouth  were  precious  to 
him.  Peter — his  friend,  his  father,  his  comrade !  Could 
he  ever  insult  him  by  such  a  mean,  cowardly  feeling  as 
gratitude?  And  was  the  woman  he  loved  as  he  loved 
nothing  else  in  life — was  she — was  Ruth  going  to  be- 
little their  relations  with  the  same  substitute  ?  It  was 
a  big  pin,  that  which  Miss  Felicia  had  impaled  him  on, 
and  it  is  no  wonder  the  poor  fluttering  wings  were  nigh 
exhausted  in  the  struggle! 

Relief  came  at  last. 

"And  now  what  shall  I  tell  her  ?  "  asked  Miss  Felicia. 
"She  worries  more  over  you  than  she  does  over  her 
father;  she  can  get  hold  of  him  any  minute,  but  you 
won't  be  presentable  for  a  week.  Come,  what  shall  I 
tell  her?" 

Jack  shifted  his  shoulders  so  that  he  could  move  the 
easier  and  with  less  pain,  and  raised  himself  on  his  well 

234 


PETER 

elbow.  There  was  no  use  of  his  hoping  any  more;  she 
had  evidently  sent  Miss  Felicia  to  en<|'  the  matter  with 
one  of  her  polite  phrases, — a  weapon  which  she,  of  all 
women,  knew  so  well  how  to  use. 

"Give  Miss  Ruth  my  kindest  regards,"  he  said  in  a 
low  voice,  still  husky  from  the  effects  of  the  smoke  and 
the  strain  of  the  last  half-hour — "and  say  how  thankful 
I  am  for  her  gratitude,  and—  No, — don't  tell  her  any- 
thing of  the  kind.  I  don't  know  what  you  are  to  tell 
her."  The  words  seemed  to  die  in  his  throat. 

"But  she  will  ask  me,  and  I  have  got  to  say  some- 
thing. Come, — out  with  it."  Her  eyes  were  still  on  his 
face;  not  a  beat  of  his  wings  or  a  squirm  of  his  body 
had  she  missed. 

"Well  just  say  how  glad  I  am  she  is  at  home  again 
and  that  her  father  is  getting  on  so  well,  and  tell  her 
I  will  be  up  and  around  in  a  day  or  two,  and  that  I  am 
not  a  bit  worse  off  for  going  to  the  station  yesterday." 

"Anything  else?" 

"No, — unless  you  can  think  of  something." 

"And  if  I  do  shall  I  add  it?" 

"Yes." 

"Oh, — then  I  know  exactly  what  to  do, — it  will  be 
something  like  this:  ' Please,  Ruth,  take  care  of  your 
precious  self,  and  don't  be  worried  about  me  or  any- 
thing else,  and  remember  that  every  minute  I  am  away 
from  you  is  misery,  for  I  love  you  to  distraction  and ' " 

"Oh,  Miss  Felicia!" 

"  No — none  of  your  protests,  sir! "  she  laughed.  "That 
is  just  what  I  am  going  to  tell  her.  And  now  don't  you 

235 


PETER 

dare  to  move  till  Peter  comes  back/'  and  with  a  toss  of 
her  aristocratic  head  the  dear  lady  left  the  room,  closing 
the  door  behind  her. 

And  so  our  poor  butterfly  was  left  flat  against  the 
wall — all  his  flights  ended.  No  more  roaming  over 
honeysuckles,  drinking  in  the  honey  of  Ruth's  talk;  no 
more  soaring  up  into  the  blue,  the  sunshine  of  hope  daz- 
zling his  wings.  It  made  no  difference  what  Miss  Fe- 
licia might  say  to  Ruth.  It  was  what  she  had  said  to 
him  which  made  him  realize  the  absurdity  of  all  his 
hopes.  Everything  that  he  had  longed  for,  wrorked 
for,  dreamed  about,  was  over  now — the  long  walks  in 
the  garden,  her  dear  hand  in  his,  even  the  song  of  the 
choir  boys,  and  the  burst  of  joyous  music  as  they  passed 
out  of  the  church  door  only  to  enter  their  own  for  life. 
All  this  was  gone — never  to  return — never  had  existed, 
in  fact,  except  in  his  own  wild  imagination.  And  once 
more  the  disheartened  boy  turned  his  tired  pain-racked 
face  toward  the  bare  wall. 

Miss  Felicia  tripped  downstairs  with  an  untroubled 
air,  extended  two  fingers  to  Mrs.  Hicks,  and  without 
more  ado  passed  out  into  the  morning  air.  No  thought 
of  the  torment  she  had  inflicted  affected  the  dear 
woman.  What  were  pins  made  for  except  to  curb 
the  ambitious  wings  of  flighty  young  men  who  were 
soaring  higher  than  was  good  for  them.  She  would 
let  him  know  that  Ruth  was  a  prize  not  to  be  too  easily 
won,  especially  by  penniless  young  gentlemen,  however 
brave  and  heroic  they  might  be. 

Hardly  had  she  crossed  the  dreary  village  street  en- 
236 


PETER 

cumbered  with  piles  of  half-melted  snow  and  mud, 
than  she  espied  Peter  picking  his  way  toward  her,  his 
silk  hat  brushed  to  a  turn,  his  gray  surtout  buttoned 
close,  showing  but  the  edge  of  his  white  silk  muffler, 
his  carefully  rolled  umbrella  serving  as  a  divining  rod 
the  better  to  detect  the  water  holes.  No  one  who  met 
him  and  looked  into  his  fresh,  rosy  face,  or  caught  the 
merry  twinkle  of  his  eyes,  would  ever  have  supposed 
he  had  been  pouring  liniment  over  broken  arms  and 
bandaged  fingers  until  two  o'clock  in  the  morning  of 
the  night  before.  It  had  only  been  when  Bolton's  sister 
had  discovered  an  empty  "cell,"  as  Jack  called  the 
bedroom  next  to  his,  that  he  had  abandoned  his  inten- 
tion of  camping  out  on  Jack's  disheartened  lounge, 
and  had  retired  like  a  gentleman  carrying  with  him  all 
his  toilet  articles,  ready  to  be  set  out  in  the  morning. 

Long  before  that  time  he  had  captured  everybody  in 
the  place:  from  Mrs.  Hicks,  who  never  dreamed  that 
such  a  well  of  tenderness  over  suffering  could  exist  in 
an  old  fellow's  heart,  down  to  the  freckled-faced  boy 
who  came  for  his  muddy  shoes  and  who,  after  a  mo- 
ment's talk  with  Peter  as  to  how  they  should  be  pol- 
ished, retired  later  in  the  firm  belief  that  they  belonged 
to  "a  gent  way  up  in  G,"  as  he  expressed  it,  he  never 
having  waited  on  "the  likes  of  him  before."  As  to 
Bolton,  he  thought  he  was  the  "best  ever,"  and  as  to 
his  prim,  patient  sister  who  had  closed  her  school  to  be 
near  her  brother — she  declared  to  Mrs.  Hicks  five  min- 
utes after  she  had  laid  her  eyes  on  him,  that  Mr. 
Breen's  uncle  was  "just  too  dear  for  anything," — to 

237 


PETER 

which  the  lady  with  the  movable  hair  and  mob-cap  not 
only  agreed,  but  added  the  remark  of  her  own,  "that 
folks  like  him  was  a  sight  better  than  the  kind  she  was 
a-gettin'." 

All  these  happenings  of  the  night  and  early  hours  of 
this  bright,  beautiful  morning — and  it  was  bright  and 
sunny  overhead  despite  the  old  fellow's  precautionary 
umbrella — had  helped  turn  out  the  spick  and  span 
gentleman  who  was  now  making  his  way  carefully  over 
the  unpaved  road  which  stood  for  Corklesville's  prin- 
cipal street. 

Miss  Felicia  saw  him  first. 

"Oh!  there  you  are!"  she  cried  before  he  could 
raise  his  eyes.  "Did  you  ever  see  anything  so  disgrace- 
ful as  this  crossing — not  a  plank — nothing.  No — 
get  out  of  my  way,  Peter;  you  will  just  upset  me,  and 
I  would  rather  help  myself." 

In  reply  Peter,  promptly  ignoring  her  protest, 
stepped  in  front  of  her,  poked  into  several  fraudulent 
solidities  covering  unfathomable  depths,  found  one  hard 
enough  to  bear  the  weight  of  Miss  Felicia's  dainty  shoe 
— it  was  about  as  long  as  a  baby's  hand — and  holding 
out  his  own  said,  in  his  most  courtly  manner: 

"Be  very  careful  now,  my  dear:  put  your  foot  on 
mine;  so!  now  give  me  your  hand  and  jump.  There — 
that's  it."  To  see  Peter  help  a  lady  across  a  muddy 
street,  Holker  Morris  always  said,  was  a  lesson  in  all 
the  finer  virtues.  Sir  Walter  was  a  bungler  beside  him. 
But  then  Miss  Felicia  could  also  have  passed  muster  as 
the  gay  gallant's  companion. 

238 


PETER 

And  just  here  the  Scribe  remarks,  parenthetically, 
that  there  is  nothing  that  shows  a  woman's  refinement 
more  clearly  than  the  way  she  crosses  a  street. 

Miss  Felicia,  for  instance,  would  no  more  have 
soiled  the  toes  of  her  shoes  in  a  puddle  than  a  milk- 
white  pussy  would  have  dampened  its  feet  in  the 
splash  of  an  overturned  bowl:  a  calm  survey  up  and 
down;  a  taking  in  of  the  dry  and  wet  spots;  a  care- 
ful gathering  up  of  her  skirts,  and  over  skimmed  the 
slender,  willowy  old  lady  with  a  one — two — and  three 
— followed  by  a  stamp  of  her  absurd  feet  and  the 
shaking  out  of  ruffle  and  pleat.  When  a  woman 
strides  through  mud  without  a  shiver  because  she  has 
plenty  of  dry  shoes  and  good  ones  at  home,  there  are 
other  parts  of  her  make-up,  inside  and  out,  that  may 
want  a  looking  after. 

Miss  Felicia  safely  landed  on  the  dry  and  compara- 
tively clean  sidewalk,  Peter  put  the  question  he  had 
been  framing  in  his  mind  since  he  first  caught  sight  of 
that  lady  picking  her  way  among  the  puddles. 

"Well,  how  is  he  now?" 

"His  head,  or  his  heart?"  she  asked  with  a  knowing 
smile,  dropping  her  still  spotless  skirts.  "Both  are 
broken;  the  last  into  smithereens.  It  is  hopeless.  He 
will  never  be  any  better.  Oh,  Peter,  what  a  mess  you 
have  made  of  things ! " 

"What  have  I  done?"  he  laughed. 

"Got  these  two  people  dead  in  love  with  each 
other, — both  of  them — Ruth  is  just  as  bad — and  no 
more  chance  of  their  ever  being  married  than  you 

239 


PETER 

or  I.  Perfectly  silly,  Peter,  and  I  have  always  told 
you  so — and  now  you  will  have  to  take  the  consequen- 
ces." 

"Beautiful— beautiful!"  chuckled  Peter;  "every- 
thing is  coming  my  way.  I  was  sure  of  Jack,  for  he  told 
me  so,  but  Ruth  puzzled  me.  Did  she  tell  you  she 
loved  him  ?" 

"No,  stupid,  of  course  she  did  not.  But  have  I  not 
a  pair  of  eyes  in  my  head  ?  What  do  you  suppose  I  got 
up  for  this  morning  at  such  an  unearthly  hour  and  went 
over  to —  Oh,  such  an  awful  place! — to  see  that 
idiot?  Just  to  tell  him  I  was  sorry  ?  Not  a  bit  of  it!  I 
went  to  find  out  what  was  going  on,  and  now  I  know; 
and  what  is  to  become  of  it  all  nobody  can  tell.  Here  is 
her  father  with  every  penny  he  has  in  the  world  in  this 
work — so  Holker  tells  me — and  here  are  a  lot  of  dam- 
ages for  dead  men  and  Heaven  knows  what  else;  and 
there  is  Jack  Breen  with  not  a  penny  to  his  name  ex- 
cept his  month's  wages;  and  here  is  Ruth  who  can 
marry  anybody  she  chooses,  bewitched  by  that  boy — 
and  I  grant  you  she  has  every  reason  for  he  is  as  brave 
as  he  can  be,  and  what  is  better  he  is  a  gentleman.  And 
there  lies  Henry  MacFarlane  blind  as  a  bat  as  to  what 
is  going  on!  Oh! — really,  Peter,  there  cannot  be  any- 
thing more  absurd." 

During  the  outbreak  Peter  stood  leaning  on  his  um- 
brella, a  smile  playing  over  his  smooth-shaven  face,  his 
eyes  snapping  as  if  at  some  inwardly  suppressed  fun. 
These  were  the  kind  of  outbursts  Peter  loved.  It  was 
only  when  Felicia  was  about  to  come  over  to  your  way 

240 


PETER 

of  thinking  that  she  talked  like  this.    It  was  her  way  of 
hearing  the  other  side. 

" Dreadful!— dreadful!"  sighed  Peter,  looking  the 
picture  of  woe.  "Love  in  a  garret — everybody  in  rags, 
— one  meal  a  day — awful  situation!  Something's  got 
to  be  done  at  once.  I'll  begin  by  taking  up  a  collection 
this  very  day.  In  the  meantime,  Felicia,  I'll  just  keep 
on  to  Jack's  and  see  how  his  arm's  getting  on  and  his 

head.    As  to  his  heart, — I'll  talk  to  Ruth  and  see " 

"  Are  you  crazy,  Peter  ?  You  will  do  nothing  of  the 
kind.  If  you  do,  I  will- 
But  Peter,  his  hat  in  the  air,  was  now  out  of  hearing. 
When  he  reached  the  mud  line  he  turned,  drew  his  um- 
brella as  if  from  an  imaginary  scabbard,  made  a  mili- 
tary salute,  and,  with  a  suppressed  gurgle  in  his  throat, 
kept  on  to  Jack's  room. 

Somehow  the  sunshine  had  crept  into  the  old  fellow's 
veins  this  morning.  None  of  Miss  Felicia's  pins  for 
him! 

Ruth,  from  her  place  by  the  sitting-room  window, 
had  seen  the  two  talking  and  had  opened  the  front  door 
before  Miss  Felicia's  hand  touched  the  bell.  She  had 
already  subjected  Peter  to  a  running  fire  of  questions 
while  he  was  taking  his  coffee  and  thus  had  the  latest 
intelligence  down  to  the  moment  when  Peter  turned  low 
Jack's  light  and  had  tucked  him  in.  He  was  asleep 
when  Peter  had  peered  into  his  cramped  room  early  this 
morning,  and  the  bulletin  therefore  could  go  no  further. 
"And  how  is  he,  aunty?"  Ruth  asked  in  a  breathless 
tone  before  the  front  door  could  be  closed. 

241 


PETER 

"  Getting  on  splendidly,  my  dear.  Slept  pretty  well. 
It  is  a  dreadful  place  for  any  one  to  be  in,  but  I  sup- 
pose he  is  accustomed  to  it  by  this  time." 

"And  is  he  no  worse  for  coming  to  meet  us,  Aunt 
Felicia?"  Ruth  asked,  her  voice  betraying  her  anxiety. 
She  had  relieved  the  old  lady  of  her.  cloak  now,  and 
had  passed  one  arm  around  her  slender  waist. 

"No,  he  doesn't  seem  to  be,  dearie.  Tired,  of  course 
— and  it  may  keep  him  in  bed  a  day  or  two  longer,  but 
it  won't  make  any  difference  in  his  getting  well.  He 
will  be  out  in  a  week  or  so." 

Ruth  paused  for  a  moment  and  then  asked  in  a  hesi- 
tating way,  all  her  sympathy  in  her  eyes : 

"And  I  don't  suppose  there  is  anybody  to  look  after 
him,  is  there?" 

"Oh,  yes,  plenty:  Mrs.  Hicks  seems  a  kind,  moth- 
erly person,  and  then  Mr.  Bolton's  sister  runs  in  and 
out."  It  was  marvellous  how  little  interest  the  dear 
woman  took  in  the  condition  of  the  patient.  Again  the 
girl  paused.  She  was  sorry  now  she  had  not  braved 
everything  and  gone  with  her. 

"And  did  he  send  me  any  message,  aunty?"  This 
came  quite  as  a  matter  of  form — merely  to  learn  all  the 
details. 

"Oh,  yes, — I  forgot:  he  told  me  to  tell  you  how  glad 
he  was  to  hear  your  father  was  getting  well,"  replied 
Miss  Felicia  searching  the  mantel  for  a  book  she  had 
placed  there. 

Ruth  bit  her  lips  and  a  certain  dull  feeling  crept  about 
her  heart.  Jack,  with  his  broken  arm  and  bruised 

242 


PETER 

head  rose  before  her.  Then  another  figure  supplanted 
it. 

"And  what  sort  of  a  girl  is  that  Miss  Bolton  ?"  There 
was  no  curiosity — merely  for  information.  "Uncle 
Peter  was  so  full  of  her  brother  and  how  badly  he  had 
been  hurt  he  hardly  mentioned  her  name." 

"I  did  not  see  her  very  well;  she  was  just  coming 
out  of  her  brother's  room,  and  the  hall  was  dark.  Oh, 
here's  my  book — I  knew  I  had  left  it  here." 

"Pretty?"  continued  Ruth,  in  a  slightly  anxious  tone. 

"No, — I  should  say  not,"  replied  the  old  lady,  moving 
to  the  door. 

"Then  you  don't  think  there  is  anything  I  can  do?" 
Ruth  called  after  her. 

"Not  now." 

Ruth  picked  up  Miss  Felicia's  wrap  from  the  chair 
where  that  lady  had  thrown  it,  mounted  the  stairs, 
peered  from  between  the  pots  of  geraniums  screening 
a  view  of  the  street  with  the  Hicks  Hotel  dominating 
one  corner,  wondered  which  window  along  the  deso- 
late front  gave  Jack  light  and  air,  and  with  whispered 
instructions  to  the  nurse  to  be  sure  and  let  her  know 
when  her  father  awoke,  shut  herself  in  her  room. 

As  for  the  horrible  old  ogre  who  had  made  all  the 
trouble,  nipping  off  buds,  skewering  butterflies  and 
otherwise  disporting  herself  after  the  manner  of  busy- 
bodies  who  are  eternally  and  forever  poking  their  thin, 
pointed  noses  into  what  doesn't  concern  them,  no  hot, 
scalding  tears,  the  Scribe  regrets  to  say,  dimmed  her 
knowing  eyes,  nor  did  any  unbidden  sigh  leap  from  her 

243 


PETER 

old  heart.  Foolish  young  people  ought  to  thank  her 
really  for  what  she  had  done — what  she  would  still  try 
to  do — and  they  would  when  they  were  a  year  older. 

Poor,  meddling  Miss  Felicia!  Have  you  forgotten 
that  night  thirty  years  ago  when  you  stood  in  a  darkened 
room  facing  a  straight,  soldierly  looking  man,  and  lis- 
tened to  the  slow  dropping  of  words  that  scalded  your 
heart  like  molten  metal  ?  Have  you  forgotten,  too,  the 
look  on  his  handsome  face  when  he  uttered  his  protest 
at  the  persistent  intermeddling  of  another,  and  the 
square  of  his  broad  shoulders  as  he  disappeared  through 
the  open  door  never  to  return  again  ? 


244 


CHAPTER  XVII 

Some  of  the  sunshine  that  had  helped  dry  the  muddy 
road,  making  possible  the  path  between  Jack's  abode 
and  MacFarlane's  hired  villa — where  there  was  only 
room  for  Miss  Felicia,  Peter  still  occupying  his  cell  at 
Mrs.  Hicks's,  but  taking  his  meals  with  Ruth,  so  that 
he  could  be  within  call  of  MacFarlane  when  needed — 
some  of  this  same  sunshine,  I  say,  may  have  been  re- 
sponsible for  the  temporary  drying  up  of  Ruth's  tears 
and  the  establishing  of  various  ways  of  communication 
between  two  hearts  that  had  for  some  days  been  floun- 
dering in  the  deeps.  Or,  perhaps,  the  rebound  may 
have  been  due  to  the  fact  that  Peter  had  whispered 
something  in  Jack's  ear,  or  that  Ruth  had  overheard 
Miss  Felicia  praising  Jack's  heroism  to  her  father — it 
was  common  talk  everywhere — or  it  may  have  been 
that  the  coming  of  spring  which  always  brings  hope  and 
cheer — making  old  into  new,  may  have  led  to  the  gen- 
eral lighting  up  of  the  gloom  that  had  settled  over  the 
house  of  MacFarlane  and  its  dependents;  but  certain 
it  is  that  such  was  the  case. 

MacFarlane  began  by  taking  a  sudden  change  for 
the  better — so  decided  a  change  that  he  was  out  of  his 
room  and  dressed  on  the  fifth  day  (although  half  his 

245 


PETER 

coat  hid  his  broken  arm,  tightly  bandaged  to  his  side). 
He  had  even  walked  as  far  as  the  geraniums  in  the  win- 
dow, through  which  he  could  not  only  see  Jack's  hotel, 
but  the  big  "earth  fill "  and  mouth  of  The  Beast  beyond. 

Then  Bolton  surprised  everybody  by  appearing  out- 
doors, his  hand  alone  in  a  sling.  What  was  left  of  the 
poor  shanty  men,  too,  had  been  buried,  the  dreadful 
newspaper  articles  had  ceased,  and  work  was  again  in 
full  blast. 

Jack,  to  be  sure,  was  still  in  his  room,  having  swal- 
lowed more  gas  and  smoke  than  the  others,  badly 
scorching  his  insides,  as  he  had  panted  under  the  weight 
of  MacFarlane's  body.  The  crisis,  however,  brought 
on  by  his  imprudence  in  meeting  Ruth  at  the  station, 
had  passed,  and  even  he  was  expected  to  be  out  in  a  few 
days. 

As  for  Miss  Felicia,  although  she  had  blown  hot  and 
blown  cold  on  Ruth's  heart,  until  that  delicate  instru- 
ment stood  at  zero  one  day  and  at  fever  heat  the  next, 
she  had,  on  the  whole,  kept  up  an  equable  temperature, 
and  meant  to  do  so  until  she  shook  the  dust  of  Corkles- 
ville  from  her  dainty  feet  and  went  back  to  the  clean, 
moist  bricks  of  her  garden. 

And  as  for  Peter!  Had  he  not  been  a  continuous  joy, 
cheering  everybody;  telling  MacFarlane  funny  stories 
until  that  harassed  invalid  laughed  himself,  uncon- 
scious of  the  pain  to  his  arm;  bringing  roses  for  the  prim, 
wizened-up  Miss  Bolton,  that  she  might  have  a  glimpse 
of  something  fresh  and  alive  while  she  sat  by  her 
brother's  bed.  And  last,  and  by  no  means  least,  had  he 

246 


PETER 

not  the  morning  he  had  left  for  New  York,  his  holiday 
being  over,  taken  Ruth  in  his  arms  and  putting  his  lips 
close  to  her  ear,  whispered  something  into  its  pink 
shell  that  had  started  northern  lights  dancing  all  over 
her  cheeks  and  away  up  to  the  roots  of  her  hair;  and 
had  she  not  given  him  a  good  hug  and  kissed  him  in  re- 
turn, a  thing  she  had  never  done  in  her  whole  life  be- 
fore ?  And  had  he  not  stopped  on  his  way  to  the  station 
for  a  last  hand-shake  with  Jack  and  to  congratulate 
him  for  the  hundredth  time  for  his  plucky  rescue  of 
MacFarlane — a  subject  he  never  ceased  to  talk  about— 
and  had  he  not  at  the  very  last  moment,  told  Jack  every 
word  of  what  he  and  Ruth  talked  about,  with  all  the 
details  elaborated,  even  to  the  hug,  which  was  no 
sooner  told  than  another  set  of  northern  lights  got  into 
action  at  once,  and  another  hug  followed;  only  this 
time  it  took  the  form  of  a  hearty  hand-shake  and  a  pat 
on  Peter's  back,  followed  by  a  big  tear  which  the  boy 
tried  his  best  to  conceal  ?  Peter  had  no  theories  detri- 
mental to  penniless  young  gentlemen,  pursued  by  inter- 
meddling old  ladies. 

And  yet  with  all  this  there  was  one  corner  deep  down 
in  Ruth's  heart  so  overgrown  with  "wonderings"  and 
"whys,"  so  thick  with  tangled  doubts  and  misgivings, 
that  no  cheering  ray  of  certainty  had  yet  been  able  to 
pierce  it.  Nor  had  any  one  tried.  Miss  Felicia,  good 
as  she  was  and  loving  as  she  had  been,  had  done  noth- 
ing in  the  pruning  way — that  is,  nothing  which  would 
let  in  any  sunshine  radiating  from  Jack.  She  had 
talked  about  him,  it  is  true;  not  to  her,  we  may  be  sure, 

247 


PETER 

but  to  her  father,  saying  how  handsome  he  had  grown 
and  what  a  fine  man  he  was  making  of  himself. 
She  had,  too,  more  than  once  commented — and  this 
before  everybody — on  his  good  manners  and  his  breed- 
ing, especially  on  the  way  he  had  received  her  the  first 
morning  she  called,  and  to  his  never  apologizing  for 
his  miserable  surroundings,  meagre  as  they  were — just 
a  theodolite,  his  father's  portrait  and  half  a  dozen 
books  alone  being  visible,  the  white  walls  covered  with 
working  plans.  But  when  the  poor  girl  had  tried  to 
draw  from  her  some  word  that  was  personal  to  himself, 
or  one  that  might  become  personal — and  she  did  try 
even  to  the  verge  of  betraying  herself,  which  would 
never  have  done — Miss  Felicia  had  always  turned  the 
subject  at  once  or  had  pleaded  forgetfulness.  Not  a 
word  could  she  drag  out  of  this  very  perverse  and  de- 
termined old  lady  concerning  the  state  of  the  patient, 
nothing  except  that  he  was  "better,"  or  "doing  nicely," 
or  that  the  bandage  was  being  shortened,  or  some  other 
commonplace.  Uncle  Peter  had  been  kinder.  He 
understood — she  saw  that  in  his  eyes.  Still  even  Uncle 
Peter  had  not  told  her  all  that  she  wanted  to  know,  and 
of  course  she  could  not  ask  him. 

Soon  a  certain  vague  antagonism  began  to  assert  itself 
toward  the  old  lady  who  knew  so  much  and  yet  who 
said  so  little!  who  was  too  old  really  to  understand- 
no  old  person,  in  fact,  could  understand — that  is,  no  old 
woman.  This  proved,  too,  that  this  particular  person 
could  never  have  loved  any  other  particular  person 
in  her  life.  Not  that  she,  Ruth,  loved  Jack — by  no 

248 


PETER 

manner  of  means — not  in  that  way,  at  least.  But  she 
would  have  liked  to  know  what  he  said,  and  how  he  said 
it,  and  whether  his  eyes  had  lost  that  terrible  look  which 
they  wore  when  he  turned  away  at  the  station  to  go 
back  to  his  sick  bed  in  the  dingy  hotel.  All  these  things 
her  Aunt  Felicia  knew  about  and  yet  she  could  not  drag 
a  word  out  of  her. 

What  she  ought  to  have  done  was  to  go  herself  that 
first  night,  bravely,  honestly,  fearlessly  as  any  friend 
had  a  right  to  do;  go  to  him  in  his  miserable  little  hotel 
and  try  to  cheer  him  up  as  Miss  Felicia,  and  perhaps 
Miss  Bolton,  had  done.  Then  she  might  have  found 
out  all  about  it.  Exactly  what  it  was  that  she  wanted 
to  find  out  all  about — and  this  increased  her  perplex- 
ity— she  could  not  formulate,  although  she  was  con- 
vinced it  would  help  her  to  bear  the  anxiety  she  was 
suffering.  Now  it  was  too  late;  more  than  a  week  had 
passed,  and  no  excuse  for  going  was  possible. 

It  was  not  until  the  morning  after  Peter's  departure, 
— she,  sitting  alone,  sad  and  silent  in  her  chair  at  the 
head  of  her  father's  breakfast  table  (Miss  Felicia,  as 
was  her  custom,  had  her  coffee  in  her  room),  that  the 
first  ray  of  light  had  crept  into  her  troubled  brain.  It 
had  only  shone  a  brief  moment/ — and  had  then  gone 
out  in  darkness,  but  it  held  a  certain  promise  for  better 
days,  and  on  this  she  had  built  her  hopes. 

"I  am  going  to  send  for  Breen  to-morrow,  Ruth," 
her  father  had  said  as  he  kissed  her  good-night.  "There 
are  some  things  I  want  to  talk  over  with  him,  and  then 
I  want  to  thank  him  for  what  he  did  for  me.  He's  a 

249 


PETER 

man,  every  inch  of  him;  I  haven't  told  him  so  yet, — 
not  to  his  face, — but  I  will  to-morrow.  Fine  fellow  is 
Breen;  blood  will  always  tell  in  the  end,  my  daughter, 
and  he's  got  the  best  in  the  country  in  his  veins.  Looks 
more  like  his  father  every  day  he  lives." 

She  had  hardly  slept  all  night,  thinking  of  the  pleas- 
ure in  store  for  her.  She  had  dressed  herself,  too,  in 
her  most  becoming  breakfast  gown — one  she  had  worn 
when  Jack  first  arrived  at  Corklesville,  and  which  he 
said  reminded  him  of  a  picture  he  had  seen  a,s  a 
boy.  There  were  pink  rosebuds  woven  in  its  soft 
texture,  and  the  wide  peach-blossom  ribbon  that 
bound  her  dainty  waist  contrasted  so  delightfully,  as 
he  had  timidly  hinted,  with  the  tones  of  her  hair  and 
cheeks. 

It  was  the  puffy,  bespectacled  little  doctor  who  shut 
out  the  light. 

"No,  your  father  has  still  one  degree  of  fever/'  he 
grumbled,  with  a  wise  shake  of  his  bushy  head.  "  No — 
nobody,  Miss  MacFarlane, — do  you  understand  ?  He 
can  see  nobody — or  I  won't  be  responsible,"  and  with 
this  the  crabbed  old  fellow  climbed  into  his  gig  and 
drove  away. 

She  looked  after  him  for  a  moment  and  two  hot 
tears  dropped  from  her  eyes  and  dashed  themselves  to 
pieces  on  the  peach-blossom  ribbon. 

But  the  sky  was  clearing  again — she  didn't  realize 
it, — but  it  was.  April  skies  always  make  alternate 
lights  and  darks.  The  old  curmudgeon  had  gone,  but 
the  garden  gate  was  again  a-swing. 

250 


PETER 

Ruth  heard  the  tread  on  the  porch  and  drawing  back 
the  curtains  looked  out.  The  most  brilliant  sunbeams 
were  but  dull  rays  compared  with  what  now  flashed 
from  her  eyes.  Nor  did  she  wait  for  any  other  hand 
than  her  own  to  turn  the  knob  of  the  door. 

"Why,  Mr.  Breen!" 

"Yes,  Miss  Ruth,"  Jack  answered,  lifting  his  hat,  an 
unrestrained  gladness  at  the  sight  of  her  beauty  and 
freshness  illumining  his  face.  "I  have  come  to  report 
for  duty  to  your  father." 

"But  you  cannot  see  him.  You  must  report  to  me," 
she  laughed  gayly,  her  heart  brimming  over  now  that 
he  was  before  her  again.  "Father  was  going  to  send 
for  you  to-day,  but  the  doctor  would  not  let  him.  Hush! 
he  musn't  hear  us." 

"He  would  not  let  me  go  out  either,  but  as  I  am  tired 
to  death  of  being  cooped  up  in  my  room,  I  broke  jail. 
Can't  I  see  him?"  he  continued  in  a  lower  key.  He 
had  his  coat  off  and  had  hung  it  on  the  rack,  she  follow- 
ing him  into  the  sitting-room,  absorbing  every  inch  of 
his  strong,  well-knit  body  from  his  short-cropped  hair 
where  the  bandages  had  been  wound,  down  to  the 
sprained  wrist  which  was  still  in  splints.  She  noted, 
too,  with  a  little  choke  in  her  throat,  the  shadows  under 
the  cheek  bones  and  the  thinness  of  the  nose.  She 
could  see  plainly  how  he  had  suffered. 

"I  am  sorry  you  cannot  see  father."  She  was  too 
moved  to  say  more.  "He  still  has  one  degree  of  fever." 

"I  have  two  degrees  myself,"  Jack  laughed  softly, — 
"one  records  how  anxious  I  was  to  get  out  of  my  cell 

251 


PETER 

and  the  other  how  eager  I  was  to  get  here.  And  now 
I  suppose  I  can't  stay." 

"Oh,  yes,  you  can  stay  if  you  will  keep  as  still  as  a 
mouse  so  father  can't  hear  you/'  she  whispered,  a  note 
of  joy  woven  in  her  tones. 

She  was  leading  him  to  the  sofa  as  she  spoke.  He 
placed  a  cushion  for  her,  and  took  his  place  beside  her, 
resting  his  injured  hand,  which  was  in  a  sling,  on  the 
arm.  He  was  still  weak  and  shaking. 

"Daddy  is  still  in  his  room,"  she  rattled  on  ner- 
vously, "but  he  may  be  out  and  prowling  about  the 
upstairs  hall  any  minute.  He  has  a  heap  of  things  to 
talk  over  with  you — he  told  me  so  last  night — and  if  he 
knew  you  were  here  nothing  would  stop  him.  Wait 
till  I  shut  the  door.  And  now  tell  me  about  yourself," 
she  continued  in  a  louder  voice,  regaining  her  seat. 
"  You  have  had  a  dreadful  time,  I  hear — it  was  the  wrist, 
wasn't  it?"  She  felt  she  was  beginning  badly;  al- 
though conscious  of  her  nervous  joy  and  her  desire  to 
conceal  it,  somehow  it  seemed  hard  for  her  to  say 
the  right  thing. 

"Oh,  I  reckon  it  was  everything,  Miss  Ruth,  but  it's 
all  over  now."  He  was  not  nervous.  He  was  in  an 
ecstasy.  His  eyes  were  drinking  in  the  round  of  her 
throat  and  the  waves  of  glorious  hair  that  crowned  her 
lovely  head.  He  noticed,  too,  some  tiny  threads  that 
lay  close  to  her  ears:  he  had  been  so  hungry  for  a 
glimpse  of  them! 

"  Oh,  I  hope  so,  but  you  shouldn't  have  come  to  the 
station  that  day,"  she  struggled  on.  "We  had  Uncle 

252 


PETER 

Peter  with  us,  and  only  a  hand-bag,  each  of  us, — we 
came  away  so  suddenly." 

"I  didn't  want  you  to  be  frightened  about  your 
father.  I  didn't  know  that  Uncle  Peter  was  with  you; 
in  fact,  I  didn't  know  much  of  anything  until  it  was  all 
over.  Bolton  sent  the  telegram  as  soon  as  he  got  his 
breath." 

"  That's  what  frightened  us.  Why  didn't  you  send 
it?"  she  was  gaining  control  of  herself  now  and  some- 
thing of  her  old  poise  had  returned. 

"  I  hadn't  got  my  breath, — not  all  of  it.  I  remember 
his  coming  into  my  room  where  they  were  tying  me  up 
and  bawling  out  something  about  how  to  reach  you  by 
wire,  and  he  says  now  that  I  gave  him  Mr.  Grayson's 
address.  I  cannot  remember  that  part  of  it,  except 
that  I—  Well,  never  mind  about  that —  "  he  hesitated 
turning  away  his  gaze — the  memory  seemed  to  bring 
with  it  a  certain  pain. 

"Yes, — tell  me,"  she  pleaded.  She  was  too  happy. 
This  was  what  she  had  been  waiting  for.  There  was 
no  detail  he  must  omit. 

"  It  was  nothing,  only  I  kept  thinking  it  was  you  who 
were  hurt,"  he  stammered. 

"Me!"  she  cried,  her  eyes  dancing.  The  ray  of 
light  was  breaking — one  with  a  promise  in  it  for  the 
future ! 

"Yes, — you,  Miss  Ruth!  Funny,  isn't  it,  how  when 
you  are  half  dead  you  get  things  mixed  up."  Oh,  the 
stupidity  of  these  lovers!  Not  a  thing  had  he  seen 
of  the  flash  of  expectation  in  her  eyes  or  of  the  hot  color 

253 


PETER 

rising  to  her  cheeks.  "I  thought  somebody  was  trying 
to  tell  your  father  that  you  were  hurt,  and  I  was  fight- 
ing to  keep  him  from  hearing  it.  But  you  must  thank 
Bolton  for  letting  you  know." 

Ruth's  face  clouded  and  the  sparkle  died  out  in  her 
eyes.  What  was  Mr.  Bolton  to  her,  and  at  a  time  like 
this? 

"It  was  most  kind  of  Mr.  Bolton,"  she  answered  in 
a  constrained  voice.  "I  only  wish  he  had  said  some- 
thing more;  we  had  a  terrible  day.  Uncle  Peter  was 
nearly  crazy  about  you;  he  telegraphed  and  telegraphed, 
but  we  could  get  no  answer.  That's  why  it  was  such  a 
relief  to  find  you  at  the  station." 

But  the  bat  had  not  finished  banging  his  head  against 
the  wall.  "Then  I  did  do  some  good  by  going?"  he 
asked  earnestly. 

"  Oh,  indeed  you  did."  If  he  did  not  care  whether 
she  had  been  hurt  or  not,  even  in  his  delirium,  she  was 
not  going  to  betray  herself.  "  It  was  the  first  time  any- 
body had  seen  Uncle  Peter  smile;  he  was  wretched  all 
day.  He  loves  you  very  dearly,  Mr.  Breen." 

Jack's  hand  dropped  so  suddenly  to  his  side  that  the 
pain  made  him  tighten  his  lips.  For  a  moment  he  did 
not  answer. 

"Then  it  was  only  Uncle  Peter  who  was  anxious, 
was  it  ?  I  am  glad  he  loves  me.  I  love  him,  too,"  he 
said  at  last  in  a  perfunctory  tone — "he's  been  every- 
thing to  me." 

"And  you  have  been  everything  to  him."  She  de- 
termined to  change  the  subject  now.  He  told  me  only 

254 


PETER 

— well, — two  days  ago — that  you  had  made  him  ten 
years  younger.'7 

"Me? — Miss  Ruth!"  Still  the  same  monotonous 
cadence. 

"Yes." 

"How?" 

"  Well, — maybe  because  he  is  old  and  you  are  young." 
As  she  spoke  her  eyes  measured  the  width  of  his  shoul- 
ders and  his  broad  chest — she  saw  now  to  what  her 
father  owed  his  life — "and  another  thing;  he  said  that 
he  would  always  thank  you  for  getting  out  alive.  And 
I  owe  you  a  debt  of  gratitude,  too,  Mr.  Breen; — you 
gave  me  back  my  dear  daddy,"  she  added  in  a  more 
assured  tone.  Here  at  last  was  something  she  could 
talk  unreservedly  about.  Something  that  she  had 
wanted  to  say  ever  since  he  came. 

Jack  straightened  and  threw  back  his  shoulders: 
that  word  again !  Was  that  all  that  Ruth  had  to  say  ? 

"No,  Miss  Ruth,  you  don't."  There  was  a  slight 
ring  of  defiance  now.  "  You  do  not  owe  me  anything, 
and  please  don't  think  so,  and  please — please — do 
not  say  so!" 

"I  don't  owe  you  anything!  Not  for  saving  my  fath- 
er's life  ?  "  This  came  with  genuine  surprise. 

"No!  WThat  would  you  have  thought  of  me,  what 
would  I  have  thought  of  myself  had  I  left  him  to  suffo- 
cate when  I  could  just  as  well  have  brought  him  out? 
Do  you  think  I  could  ever  have  looked  you  in  the  face 
again  ?  You  might  not  have  ever  known  I  could  have 
saved  him — but  I  should  have  hated  myself  every  hour 

255 


PETER 

of  my  life.  Men  are  not  to  be  thanked  for  these  things ; 
they  are  to  be  despised  if  they  don't  do  them.  Can't 
you  see  the  difference?" 

"But  you  might  have  been  killed,  too!"  she  ex- 
claimed. Her  own  voice  was  rising,  irritation  and 
disappointment  swaying  it.  "Everybody  says  it  was 
a  miracle  you  were  not." 

"Not  a  miracle  at  all.  All  I  was  afraid  of  was  stum- 
bling over  something  in  the  dark — and  it  was  nearly 
dark — only  a  few  of  the  rock  lights  burning — and  not 
be  able  to  get  on  my  feet  again.  But  don't  let  us  talk 
about  it  any  more." 

"Yes — but  I  will,  I  must.  I  must  feel  right  about 
it  all,  and  I  cannot  unless  you  listen.  I  shall  never 
forget  you  for  it  as  long  as  I  live."  There  was  a  note  of 
pathos  in  her  voice.  Why  did  he  make  it  so  hard  for 
her,  she  thought.  Why  would  he  not  look  in  her  face 
and  see?  Why  would  he  not  let  her  thank  him  ?  "Noth- 
ing in  the  world  is  so  precious  to  me  as  daddy,  and 
never  will  be,"  she  went  on  resolutely,  driving  back  the 
feeling  of  injustice  that  surged  up  in  her  heart  at  his 
attitude — "and  it  is  you,  Mr.  Breen,  who  have  given 
him  back  to  me.  And  daddy  feels  the  same  way  about 
it;  and  he  is  going  to  tell  you  so  the  minute  he  sees 
you,"  she  insisted.  "He  has  sent  you  a  lot  of  mes- 
sages, he  says,  but  they  do  not  count.  Please,  now, 
won't  you  let  me  thank  you  ?" 

Jack  raised  his  head.  He  had  been  fingering  a  tassel 
on  the  end  of  the  sofa,  missing  all  the  play  of  feeling  in 
her  eyes,  taking  in  nothing  but  the  changes  that  she 

256 


PETER 

rang  on  that  one  word  "gratitude."  Gratitude! — 
when  he  loved  the  ground  she  stepped  on.  But  he 
must  face  the  issue  fairly  now: 

"No, — I  don't  want  you  to  thank  me,"  he  answered 
simply. 

"Well,  what  do  you  want,  then?"  She  was  at  sea 
now, — compass  and  rudder  gone, — wind  blowing  from 
every  quarter  at  once, — she  trying  to  reach  the  harbor 
of  his  heart  while  every  tack  was  taking  her  farther 
from  port.  If  the  Scribe  had  his  way  the  whole  coast 
of  love  would  be  lighted  and  all  rocks  of  doubt  and 
misunderstanding  charted  for  just  such  hapless  lovers 
as  these  two.  How  often  a  twist  of  the  tiller  could  send 
them  into  the  haven  of  each  other's  arms,  and  yet 
how  often  they  go  ashore  and  stay  ashore  and  worse 
still,  stay  ashore  all  their  lives. 

Jack  looked  into  her  eyes  and  a  hopeless,  tired  ex- 
pression crossed  his  face. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  said  in  a  barely  audible  voice: — 
"I  just — please,  Miss  Ruth,  let  us  talk  of  something 
else;  let  me  tell  you  how  lovely  your  gown  is  and  how 
glad  I  am  you  wore  it  to-day.  I  always  liked  it, 
and " 

"No, — never  mind  about  my  gown;  I  would  rather 
you  did  not  like  anything  about  me  than  misunder- 
stand me!"  The  tears  were  just  under  the  lids; — one 
more  thrust  like  the  last  and  they  would  be  streaming 
down  her  cheeks. 

"But  I  haven't  misunderstood  you."  He  saw  the 
lips  quiver,  but  it  was  anger,  he  thought,  that  caused  it. 

257 


PETER 

"Yes,  you  have!" — a  great  lump  had  risen  in  her 
throat.  "You  have  done  a  brave,  noble  act, — every- 
body says  so;  you  carried  my  dear  father  out  on  your 
back  when  there  was  not  but  one  chance  in  a  thousand 
you  would  ever  get  out  alive;  you  lay  in  a  faint  for 
hours  and  once  they  gave  you  up  for  dead;  then  you 
thought  enough  of  Uncle  Peter  and  all  of  us  to  get  that 
telegram  sent  so  we  wouldn't  be  terrified  to  death  and 
then  at  the  risk  of  your  life  you  met  us  at  the  station 
and  have  been  in  bed  ever  since,  and  yet  I  am  to  sit  still 
and  not  say  a  word ! "  It  was  all  she  could  do  to  control 
herself.  "I  do  feel  grateful  to  you  and  I  always  shall 
feel  grateful  to  you  as  long  as  I  live.  And  now  will  you 
take  my  hand  and  tell  me  you  are  sorry,  and  let  me 
say  it  all  over  again,  and  with  my  whole  heart  ?  for 
that's  the  way  I  mean  it." 

She  was  facing  him  now,  her  hand  held  out,  her  head 
thrown  back,  her  dark  eyes  flashing,  her  bosom  heav- 
ing. Slowly  and  reverently,  as  a  devotee  would  kiss 
the  robe  of  a  passing  priest,  Jack  bent  his  head  and 
touched  her  fingers  with  his  lips. 

Then,  raising  his  eyes  to  hers,  he  asked,  "And  is 
that  all,  Miss  Ruth?  Isn't  there  something  more?" 
Not  once  had  she  mentioned  his  own  safety — not  once 
had  she  been  glad  over  him —  "Something  more  ?"  he 
repeated,  an  ineffable  tenderness  in  his  tones — "some- 
thing—it  isn't  all,  is  it?" 

"Why,  how  can  I  say  anything  more?"  she  mur- 
mured in  a  lowered  voice,  withdrawing  her  hand  as  the 
sound  of  a  step  in  the  hall  reached  her  ear. 

258 


PETER 

The  door  swung  wide:  "Well,  what  are  you  two 
young  people  quarrelling  about?"  came  a  soft,  purring 
voice. 

"We  weren't  quarrelling,  Aunty.  Mr.  Breen  is  so 
modest  he  doesn't  want  anybody  to  thank  him,  and  I 
just  would." 

Miss  Felicia  felt  that  she  had  entered  just  in  time. 
Scarred  and  penniless  heroes  fresh  from  battle-fields 
of  glory  and  desirable  young  women  whose  fathers 
have  been  carried  bodily  out  of  burning  death  pits 
must  never  be  left  too  long  together. 


259 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

As  the  weeks  rolled  by,  two  questions  constantly 
rose  in  Ruth's  mind:  Why  had  he  not  wanted  her  to 
thank  him? — and  what  had  he  meant  by — "And  is 
that  all?" 

Her  other  admirers — and  there  had  been  many  in  her 
Maryland  home — had  never  behaved  like  this.  Was  it 
because  they  liked  her  better  than  she  liked  them  ?  The 
fact  was — and  she  might  as  well  admit  it  once  for  all — 
that  Jack  did  not  like  her  at  all,  he  really  disliked  her, 
and  only  his  loyalty  to  her  father  and  that  inborn  cour- 
tesy which  made  him  polite  to  every  woman  he  met — 
young  or  old — prevented  his  betraying  himself.  She 
tried  to  suggest  something  like  this  to  Miss  Felicia,  but 
that  good  woman  had  only  said:  "Men  are  queer,  my 
dear,  and  these  Southerners  are  the  queerest  of  them 
all.  They  are  so  chivalrous  that  at  times  they  get 
tiresome.  Breen  is  no  better  than  the  rest  of  them." 
This  had  ended  it  with  Miss  Felicia.  Nor  would  she 
ever  mention  his  name  to  her  again.  Jack  was  not 
tiresome;  on  the  contrary,  he  was  the  soul  of  honor  and 
as  brave  as  he  could  be — a  conclusion  quite  as  illogical 
as  that  of  her  would-be  adviser. 

If  she  could  only  have  seen  Peter,  the  poor  child 
260 


PETER 

thought, — Peter  understood — just  as  some  women  not 
as  old  as  her  aunt  would  have  understood.  Dear  Uncle 
Peter!  He  had  told  her  once  what  Jack  had  said  about 
her — how  beautiful  he  thought  her  and  how  he  loved 
her  devotion  to  her  father.  Jack  must  have  said  it,  for 
Uncle  Peter  never  spoke  anything  but  the  exact  truth. 
Then  why  had  Jack,  and  everything  else,  changed  so 
cruelly  ?  she  would  say — talking  to  herself,  sometimes 
aloud.  For  the  ring  had  gone  from  his  voice  and  the 
tenderness  from  his  touch.  Not  that  he  ever  was  tender, 
not  that  she  wanted  him  to  be,  for  that  matter;  and 
then  she  would  shut  her  door  and  throw  herself  on  her 
bed  in  an  agony  of  tears — pleading  a  headache  or 
fatigue  that  she  might  escape  her  father's  inquiry,  and 
often  his  anxious  glance. 

The  only  ray  of  light  that  had  pierced  her  troubled 
heart — and  this  only  flashed  for  a  brief  moment — was 
the  glimpse  she  had  had  of  Jack's  mind  when  he  and 
her  father  first  met.  The  boy  had  called  to  inquire 
after  his  Chief's  health  and  for  any  instructions  he 
might  wish  to  give,  when  MacFarlane,  hearing  the 
young  hero's  voice  in  the  hall  below,  hurried  down  to 
greet  him.  Ruth  was  leaning  over  the  banister  at 
the  time  and  saw  all  that  passed.  Once  within  reach 
MacFarlane  strode  up  to  Jack,  and  with  the  look  on 
his  face  of  a  man  who  had  at  last  found  the  son  he  had 
been  hunting  for  all  his  life,  laid  his  hand  on  the  lad's 
shoulder. 

"I  think  we  understand  each  other,  Breen, — don't 
we  ? "  he  said  simply,  his  voice  breaking. 

261 


PETER 

"  I  think  so,  sir/'  answered  Jack,  his  own  eyes  aglow, 
as  their  hands  met. 

Nothing  else  had  followed.  There  was  no  outburst. 
Both  were  men;  in  the  broadest  and  strongest  sense 
each  had  wreighed  the  other.  The  eyes  and  the  quiver- 
ing lips  and  the  lingering  hand-clasp  told  the  rest. 

A  sudden  light  broke  in  on  Ruth.  Her  father's 
quiet  words,  and  his  rescuer's  direct  answer  came  as  a 
revelation.  Jack,  then,  did  want  to  be  thanked!  Yes, 
but  not  by  her!  Why  was  it?  Why  had  he  not  under- 
stood ?  And  why  had  he  made  her  suffer,  and  what 
had  she  done  to  deserve  it? 

If  Jack  suspected  any  of  these  heartaches  and  mis- 
givings, no  one  would  have  surmised  it.  He  came  and 
went  as  usual,  passing  an  hour  in  the  morning  and  an 
hour  at  night  with  his  Chief,  until  he  had  entirely  re- 
covered his  strength — bringing  with  him  the  records  of 
the  work;  the  number  of  feet  drilled  in  a  day;  cost  of 
maintenance;  cubic  contents  of  dump;  extent  and  slope 
and  angles  of  "fill" — all  the  matters  which  since  his 
promotion  (Jack  now  had  Bolton's  place)  came  under 
his  immediate  supervision.  Nor  had  any  word  passed 
between  himself  and  Ruth,  othtr  than  the  merest  com- 
monplace. He  was  cheery,  buoyant,  always  ready  to 
help, — always  at  her  service  if  she  took  the  train  for 
New  York  or  stayed  after  dark  at  a  neighbor's  house, 
when  he  would  insist  on  bringing  her  home,  no  matter 
how  late  he  had  been  up  the  night  before. 

If  the  truth  were  known,  he  neither  suspected  nor 
could  he  be  made  to  believe  that  Ruth  had  any  troubles. 

262 


PETER 

The  facts  were  that  he  had  given  her  all  his  heart  and 
had  been  ready  to  lay  himself  at  her  feet,  that  being 
the  accepted  term  in  his  mental  vocabulary — and  she 
would  have  none  of  him.  She  had  let  him  understand 
so — rebuffed  him— not  once,  but  every  time  he  had 
tried  to  broach  the  subject  of  his  devotion; — once  in 
the  Geneseo  arbor,  and  again  on  that  morning  when 
he  had  really  crawled  to  her  side  because  he  could  no 
longer  live  without  seeing  her.  The  manly  thing  to 
do  now  was  to  accept  the  situation :  to  do  his  work ;  look 
after  his  employer's  interests,  read,  study,  run  over 
whenever  he  could  to  see  Peter — and  these  were  never- 
to-be-forgotten  oases  in  the  desert  of  his  despair — 
and  above  all  never  to  forget  that  he  owed  a  duty  to 
Miss  Ruth  in  which  no  personal  wish  of  his  own  could 
ever  find  a  place.  She  was  alone  and  without  an  es- 
cort except  her  father,  who  was  often  so  absorbed  in 
his  work,  or  so  tired  at  night,  as  to  be  of  little  help  to 
her.  Moreover,  his  Chief  had,  in  a  way,  added  his 
daughter's  care  to  his  other  duties.  "Can't  you  take 
Ruth  to-night —  '  or  "I  wish  you'd  meet  her  at  the 
ferry,"  or  "if  you  are  going  to  that  dinner  in  New 
York,  at  so-and-so's,  would  you  mind  calling  for 
her —  "  etc.,  etc.  Don't  start,  dear  reader.  These  two 
came  of  a  breed  where  the  night  key  and  the  daughter 
go  together  and  where  a  chaperon  would  be  as  useless 
as  a  policeman  locked  inside  a  bank  vault. 

And  so  the  boy  struggled  on,  growing  in  bodily 
strength  and  mental  experience,  still  the  hero  among  the 
men  for  his  heroic  rescue  of  the  "Boss" — a  reputation 

263 


PETER 

which  he  never  lost;  making  friends  every  day  both  in 
the  village  and  in  New  York  and  keeping  them;  ab- 
sorbed in  his  slender  library,  and  living  within  his 
means,  which  small  as  they  were,  now  gave  him  two 
rooms  at  Mrs.  Hicks's, — one  of  which  he  had  fitted  up 
as  a  little  sitting-room  and  in  which  Ruth  had  poured 
the  first  cup  of  tea,  her  father  and  some  of  the  village 
people  being  guests. 

His  one  secret — and  it  was  his  only  one — he  kept 
locked  up  in  his  heart,  even  from  Peter.  Why  worry 
the  dear  old  fellow,  he  had  said  to  himself  a  dozen  times, 
since  nothing  would  ever  come  of  it. 

While  all  this  had  been  going  on  in  the  house  of 
MacFarlane,  much  more  astonishing  things  had  been 
developing  in  the  house  of  Breen. 

The  second  Mukton  Lode  scoop, — the  one  so  deftly 
handled  the  night  of  Arthur  Breen's  dinner  to  the  di- 
rectors,— had  somehow  struck  a  snag  in  the  scooping 
with  the  result  that  most  of  the  "scoopings"  had  been 
spilled  over  the  edge  there  to  be  gathered  up  by  the 
gamins  of  the  Street,  instead  of  being  hived  in  the  strong 
boxes  of  the  scoopers.  Some  of  the  habitues  in  the 
orchestra  chairs  in  Breen's  office  had  cursed  loud  and 
deep  when  they  saw  their  margins  melt  away;  and  one 
or  two  of  the  directors  had  broken  out  into  open  revolt, 
charging  Breen  with  the  fiasco,  but  most  of  the  others 
had  held  their  peace.  It  was  better  to  crawl  away  into 
the  tall  grass  there  to  nurse  their  wounds  than  to  give 
the  enemy  a  list  of  the  killed  and  wounded.  Now  and 

264 


PETER 

then  an  outsider — one  who  had  watched  the  battle  from 
afar — saw  more  of  the  fight  than  the  contestants  them- 
selves. Among  these  was  Garry  Minott. 

"You  heard  how  Mason,  the  Chicago  man,  euchred 
the  Mukton  gang,  didn't  you?"  he  had  shouted  to  a 
friend  one  night  at  the  Magnolia —  "Oh,  listen!  boys. 
They  set  up  a  job  on  him, — he's  a  countryman,  you 
know  a  poor  little  countryman — from  a  small  village 
called  Chicago — he's  got  three  millions,  remember,  all 
in  hard  cash.  Nice,  quiet  motherly  old  gentleman  is 
Mr.  Mason — butter  wouldn't  melt  in  his  mouth.  Went 
into  Mukton  with  every  dollar  he  had — so  kind  of  Mr. 
Breen  to  let  him  in — yes,  put  him  down  for  2,000 
shares  more.  Then  Breen  &  Co.  began  to  hoist  her 
up — five  points — ten  points — twenty  points.  At  the 
end  of  the  week  they  had,  without  knowing  it,  bought 
every  share  of  Mason's  stock."  Here  Garry  roared, 
as  did  the  others  within  hearing.  "And  they've  got  it 
yet.  Next  day  the  bottom  dropped  out.  Some  of  them 
heard  Mason  laugh  all  the  way  to  the  bank.  He's 
cleaned  up  half  a  million  and  gone  back  home — 'so 
afraid  his  mother  would  spank  him  for  being  out  late 
o'  nights  without  his  nurse,'"  and  again  Garry's  laugh 
rang  out  with  such  force  and  earnestness  that  the  glasses 
on  Biffy's  table  chinked  in  response. 

This  financial  set-back,  while  it  had  injured,  for  the 
time,  Arthur  Breen's  reputation  for  being  "up  and 
dressed,"  had  not,  to  any  appreciable  extent,  curtailed 
his  expenditures  or  narrowed  the  area  of  his  social 
domain.  Mrs.  Breen's  dinners  and  entertainments 

265 


PETER 

had  been  as  frequent  and  as  exclusive,  and  Miss  Corinne 
had  continued  to  run  the  gamut  of  the  gayest  and  best 
patronized  functions  without,  the  Scribe  is  pained  to 
admit,  bringing  home  with  her  for  good'  and  all  both 
her  cotillion  favors  and  the  gentleman  who  had  bestowed 
them.  Her  little  wren-like  head  had  moved  from  side 
to  side,  and  she  had  sung  her  sweetest  and  prettiest, 
but  somehow,  when  the  song  was  over  and  the  crumbs 
all  eaten  (and  there  were  often  two  dinners  a  week  and 
at  least  one  dance),  off  went  the  male  birds  to  other  and 
more  captivating  roosts. 

Mrs.  Breen,  of  course,  raved  when  Corinne  at  last 
opened  the  door  of  her  cage  for  Garry, — went  to  bed, 
in  fact,  for  the  day,  to  accentuate  her  despair  and  mark 
her  near  approach  to  death  because  of  it — a  piece  of 
inconsistency  she  could  well  have  spared  herself,  know- 
ing Corinne  as  she  had,  from  the  day  of  her  birth,  and 
remembering  as  she  must  have  done,  her  own  escapade 
with  the  almost  penniless  young  army  officer  who  after- 
ward became  Corinne's  father. 

Breen  did  not  rave;  Breen  rather  liked  it.  Garry 
had  no  money,  it  is  true,  except  what  he  could  earn, — 
neither  had  Corinne.  Garry  seemed  to  do  as  he  darned 
pleased, — so  did  Corinne; — Garry  had  no  mother, — 
neither  had  Corinne  so  far  as  yielding  to  any  authority 
was  concerned.  "Yes, — let  'em  marry, — good  thing — 
begin  at  the  bottom  round  and  work  up — "  all  of  which 
meant  that  the  honorable  banker  was  delighted  over  the 
prospect  of  considerable  more  freedom  for  himself  and 
considerable  less  expense  in  the  household. 

266 


PETER 

And  so  the  wedding  had  taken  place  with  all  the 
necessary  trimmings:  awning  over  the  carpeted  side- 
walk; four  policemen  on  the  curb;  detectives  in  the 
hall  and  up  the  staircase  and  in  the  front  bedroom 
where  the  jewels  were  exposed  (all  the  directors  of  the 
Mukton  Lode  were  represented);  crowds  lining  the 
sidewalk;  mob  outside  the  church  door — mob  inside 
the  church  door  and  clear  up  to  the  altar;  flowers, 
palms,  special  choir,  with  little  bank-notes  to  the  boys 
and  a  big  bank-note  to  the  leader;  checks  for  the  rank- 
ing clergyman  and  the  two  assistant  clergymen,  not 
forgetting  crisp  bills  for  the  sexton  and  the  janitor  and 
the  policemen  and  the  detectives  and  everybody  else 
who  could  hold  out  a  hand  and  not  be  locked  up  in 
jail  for  highway  robbery.  Yes,  a  most  fashionable  and 
a  most  distinguished  and  a  most  exclusive  wedding — 
there  was  no  mistake  about  that. 

No  one  had  ever  seen  anything  like  it  before;  some 
hoped  they  never  would  again,  so  great  was  the  crush  in 
the  drawing-room.  And  not  only  in  the  drawing-room, 
but  over  every  square  inch  of  the  house  for  that  matter, 
from  the  front  door  where  Parkins' s  assistant  (an  extra 
man  from  Delmonico's)  shouted  out — "Third  floor 
back  for  the  gentlemen  and  second  floor  front  for  the 
ladies" — to  the  innermost  recesses  of  the  library  made 
over  into  a  banquet  hall,  where  that  great  functionary 
himself  was  pouring  champagne  into  batteries  of  tum- 
blers as  if  it  were  so  much  water,  and  distributing  cuts 
of  cold  salmon  and  portions  of  terrapin  with  the  prodi- 
gality of  a  charity  committee  serving  a  picnic. 

267 


PETER 

And  then  the  heartaches  over  the  cards  that  never 
came;  and  the  presents  that  were  never  sent,  and  the 
wrath  of  the  relations  who  got  below  the  ribbon  in  the 
church  and  the  airs  of  the  strangers  who  got  above  it; 
and  the  tears  over  the  costly  dresses  that  did  not  arrive 
in  time  and  the  chagrin  over  those  they  had  to  wear 
or  stay  at  home — and  the  heat  and  the  jam  and  tear 
and  squeeze — and  the  aftermath  of  wet  glasses  on  in- 
laid tables  and  fine-spun  table-cloths  burnt  into  holes 
with  careless  cigarettes;  and  the  little  puddles  of  ice 
cream  on  the  Turkish  rugs  and  silk  divans  and  the 
broken  glass  and  smashed  china! — No — there  never 
had  been  such  a  wedding! 

This  over,  Corinne  and  Garry  had  gone  to  house- 
keeping in  a  dear  little  flat,  to  which  we  may  be  sure 
Jack  was  rarely  ever  invited  (he  had  only  received 
"cards"  to  the  church,  an  invitation  which  he  had  re- 
ligiously accepted,  standing  at  the  door  so  he  could  bow 
to  them  both  as  they  passed) — the  two,  I  say,  had  gone 
to  a  dear  little  flat — so  dear,  in  fact,  that  before  the 
year  was  out  Garry's  finances  were  in  such  a  deplorable 
condition  that  the  lease  could  not  be  renewed,  and  an- 
other and  a  cheaper  nest  had  to  be  sought  for. 

It  was  at  this  time  that  the  new  church  to  be  built  at 
Corklesville  needed  an  architect — a  fact  which  Jack 
communicated  to  Garry.  Then  it  happened  that  with 
the  aid  of  MacFarlane  and  Holker  Morris  the  com- 
mission was  finally  awarded  to  that  "rising  young 
genius  who  had  so  justly  distinguished  himself  in  the 
atelier  of  America's  greatest  architect — Holker  Morris — 

268 


PETER 

all  of  which  Garry  wrote  himself  and  had  inserted  in 
the  county  paper,  he  having  called  upon  the  editor  for 
that  very  purpose.  This  service — and  it  came  at  a 
most  critical  time  in  the  young  man's  affairs — the 
Scribe  is  glad  to  say,  Garry,  with  his  old-time  generous 
spirit  suddenly  revived,  graciously  acknowledged, 
thanking  Jack  heartily  and  with  meaning  in  his  voice, 
as  well  as  MacFarlane — not  forgetting  Ruth,  to  whom 
he  sent  a  mass  of  roses  as  big  as  a  bandbox. 

The  gaining  of  this  church  building — the  largest  and 
most  Important  given  the  young  architect  since  he  had 
left  Morris's  protection  and  guidance — decided  Garry 
to  give  up  at  once  his  expensive  quarters  in  New  York 
and  move  to  Corklesville.  So  far  as  any  help  from 
the  house  of  Breen  was  concerned,  all  hope  had  ended 
with  the  expensive  and  much-advertised  wedding 
(a  shrewd  financial  move,  really,  for  a  firm  selling 
shady  securities).  Corinne  had  cooed,  wept,  and 
then  succumbed  into  an  illness,  but  Breen  had  only 
replied:  "No,  let  'em  paddle  their  own  canoe." 

This  is  why  the  sign  "To  Let,"  on  one  of  the  new 
houses  built  by  the  Elm  Crest  Land  and  Improve- 
ment Company — old  Tom  Corkle  who  owned  the 
market  garden  farms  that  gave  the  village  of  Corkles- 
ville its  name,  would  have  laughed  himself  sore  had  he 
been  alive — was  ripped  off  and  various  teams  loaded 
with  all  sorts  of  furniture,  some  very  expensive  and 
showy  and  some  quite  the  contrary — especially  that  be- 
longing to  the  servants'  rooms — were  backed  up  to  the 
newly  finished  porch  with  its  second  coat  of  paint  still 

269 


PETER 

wet,  and  their  contents  duly  distributed  upstairs  and 
downstairs  and  in  my  lady  Corinne's  chamber. 

"  Got  to  put  on  the  brakes,  old  man,"  Garry  had  said 
one  day  to  Jack.  The  boy  had  heard  of  the  expected 
change  in  the  architect's  finances  before  the  villa  was 
rented,  and  so  Garry's  confidential  communication 
was  not  news  to  him. 

"  Been  up  to  look  at  one  of  those  new  houses.  Regular 
bird  cage,  but  we  can  get  along.  Besides,  this  town  is 
going  to  grow  and  I'm  going  to  help  it  along.  They 
are  all  dead  out  here — embalmed,  some  of  them — 
but  dead."  Here  he  opened  the  pamphlet  of  the 
company —  "See  this  house — an  hour  from  New 
York;  high  ground;  view  of  the  harbor — (all  a  lie, 
Jack,  but  it  goes  all  the  same);  sewers,  running  water, 
gas  (lot  of  the  last, — most  of  it  in  the  prospectus) 
It's  called  Elm  Crest — beautiful,  isn't  it, — and  not  a 
stump  within  half  a  mile." 

Jack  always  remembered  the  interview.  That 
Garry  should  help  along  anything  that  he  took  an  in- 
terest in  was  quite  in  the  line  of  his  ambition  and  ability. 
Minott  was  as  "smart  as  a  steel  trap,"  Holker  Morris 
had  always  said  of  him,  "and  a  wonderful  fellow  among 
the  men.  He  can  get  anything  out  of  them;  he  would 
really  make  a  good  politician.  His  handling  of  the 
Corn  Exchange  showed  that." 

And  so  it  was  not  surprising, — not  to  Jack, — that 
when  a  new  village  councilman  was  to  be  elected,  Garry 
should  have  secured  votes  enough  to  be  included  among 
their  number.  Nor  was  it  at  all  wonderful  that  after 

270 


PETER 

taking  his  seat  he  should  have  been  placed  in  charge  of 
the  village  funds  so  far  as  the  expenditures  for  contract 
work  went.  The  prestige  of  Morris's  office  settled  all 
doubts  as  to  his  fitness  in  construction;  and  the  splen- 
dor of  the  wedding — there  could  still  be  seen  posted  in 
the  houses  of  the  workmen  the  newspaper  cuts  showing 
the  bride  and  groom  leaving  the  church — silenced  all 
opposition  to  "our  fellow  townsman's"  financial  re- 
sponsibility, even  when  that  opposition  was  led  by  so 
prominent  a  ward  heeler  as  Mr.  Patrick  McGowan, 
who  had  planned  to  get  the  position  himself — and  who 
became  Garry's  arch  enemy  thereafter. 

In  these  financial  and  political  advancements  Corinne 
helped  but  little.  None  of  the  village  people  inter- 
ested her,  nor  did  she  put  herself  out  in  the  least  to  be 
polite  to  them.  Ruth  had  called  and  had  brought  her 
hands  full  of  roses — and  so  had  her  father.  Garry  had 
continued  to  thank  them  both  for  their  good  word  to  the 
church  wardens — and  he  himself  now  and  then  spent  an 
evening  at  MacFarlane's  house  without  Corinne,  who 
generally  pleaded  illness;  but  the  little  flame  of  friend- 
ship which  had  flashed  after  their  arrival  in  Corkles- 
ville  had  died  down  again. 

This  had  gone  on  until  the  acquaintance  had  prac- 
tically ended,  except  when  they  met  on  the  trains  or  in 
crossing  the  ferry.  Then  again,  Ruth  and  her  father 
lived  at  one  end  of  the  village  known  as  Corklesville, 
and  Garry  and  Corinne  lived  at  the  other  end,  known 
as  Elm  Crest,  the  connecting  link  being  the  railroad,  a 
fact  which  Jack  told  Garry  with  a  suggestive  laugh,  made 

271 


PETER 

them  always  turn  their  backs  on  each  other  when  they 
parted  to  go  to  their  respective  homes,  to  which  Garry 
would  reply  that  it  was  an  outrage  and  that  he  was  com- 
ing up  that  very  night — all  of  which  he  failed  to  do 
when  the  proposed  visit  was  talked  over  with  Corinne. 

None  of  this  affected  Jack.  He  would  greet  Corinne 
as  affectionately  and  cordially  as  he  had  ever  done. 
He  had  taken  her  measure  years  before,  but  that  made 
no  difference  to  him,  he  never  forgetting  that  she  was  his 
uncle's  nominal  daughter;  that  they  had  been  sheltered 
by  the  same  roof  and  that  she  therefore  in  a  way  be- 
longed to  his  people.  Moreover,  he  realized,  that  like 
himself,  she  had  been  compelled  to  give  up  many  of  the 
luxuries  and  surroundings  to  which  she  had  been  ac- 
customed and  which  she  loved, — worthless  now  to  Jack 
in  his  freedom,  but  still  precious  to  her.  This  in  itself 
was  enough  to  bespeak  his  sympathy.  Not  that  she 
valued  it; — she  rather  sniffed  at  it. 

"I  wish  Jack  wouldn't  stand  with  his  hat  off  until  I 
get  aboard  the  train,"  she  had  told  Garry  one  day 
shortly  after  their  arrival — "he  makes  me  so  conspicu- 
ous. And  he  wears  such  queer  clothes.  He  was  in  his 
slouch  hat  and  rough  flannel  shirt  and  high  boots  the 
other  day  and  looked  like  a  tramp." 

"Better  not  laugh  at  Jack,  Cory,"  Garry  had  replied; 
"you'll  be  taking  your  own  hat  off  to  him  one  of  these 
days;  we  all  shall.  Arthur  Breen  missed  it  when  he  let 
him  go.  Jack's  queer  about  some  things,  but  he's  a 
thoroughbred  and  he's  got  brains!" 

"He  insulted  Mr.  Breen  in  his  own  house,  that's  why 
272 


PETER 

he  let  him  go,"  snapped  Corinne.  The  idea  of  her  ever 
taking  off  her  hat,  even  figuratively,  to  John  Breen,  was 
not  to  be  brooked, — not  for  an  instant. 

"Yes,  that's  one  way  of  looking  at  it,  Cory,  but  I  tell 
you  if  Arthur  Breen  had  had  Jack  with  him  these  last 
few  months — ever  since  he  left  him,  in  fact, — and  had 
listened  once  in  a  while  to  what  Jack  thought  was  fair 
and  square,  the  firm  of  A.  B.  &  Co.  would  have  a  better 
hold  on  things  than  they've  got  now;  and  he  wouldn't 
have  dropped  that  million  either.  The  cards  don't 
always  come  up  the  right  way,  even  when  they're 
stacked." 

"It  just  served  my  stepfather  right  for  not  giving  us 
some  of  it,  and  I'm  glad  he  lost  it,"  Corinne  rejoined, 
her  anger  rising  again.  "I  have  never  forgiven  him 
for  not  making  me  an  allowance  after  I  married,  and  I 
never  will.  He  could,  at  least,  have  continued  the  one 
he  always  gave  me." 

Garry  winked  sententiously,  and  remarked  in  reply 
that  he  might  be  making  the  distinguished  money-bags 
an  allowance  himself  one  of  these  fine  days,  and  he  could 
if  some  of  the  things  he  was  counting  on  came  out 
top  side  up;  but  Corinne's  opinions  did  not  change 
either  toward  Jack  or  her  stepfather. 


273 


CHAPTER  XIX 

When  the  pain  in  Jack's  heart  over  Ruth  became 
unbearable,  there  was  always  one  refuge  left — one  balm 
which  never  failed  to  soothe,  and  that  was  Peter. 

For  though  he  held  himself  in  readiness  for  her  call, 
being  seldom  absent  lest  she  might  need  his  services, 
their  constrained  intercourse  brought  with  it  more 
pain  than  pleasure.  It  was  then  that  he  longed  for  the 
comfort  which  only  his  dear  mentor  could  give. 

On  these  occasions  Mrs.  Me  Guff  ey  would  take  the 
lace  cover  off  Miss  Felicia's  bureau,  as  a  matter  of 
precaution,  provided  that  lady  was  away  and  the  room 
available,  and  roll  in  a  big  tub  for  the  young  gentle- 
man— "who  do  be  washin'  hisself  all  the  time  and  he 
that  sloppy  that  I'm  afeared  everything  will  be  spi'lt 
for  the  mistress,"  and  Jack  would  slip  out  of  his  work- 
ing clothes  (he  would  often  come  away  in  his  flannel 
shirt  and  loose  tie,  especially  when  he  was  late  in  pay- 
ing off)  and  shed  his  heavy  boots  with  the  red  clay  of 
Jersey  still  clinging  to  their  soles,  and  get  into  his  white 
linen  and  black  clothes  and  dress  shoes,  and  then  the 
two  chums  would  lock  arms  and  saunter  up  Fifth 
Avenue  to  dine  either  at  one  of  Peter's  clubs  or  at  some 
house  where  he  and  that  "handsome  young  ward  of 

274 


PETER 

yours,  Mr.  Grayson — do  bring  him  again,"  were  so 
welcome. 

If  Miss  Felicia  was  in  town  and  her  room  in  use, 
there  was  never  any  change  in  the  programme,  Mrs. 
McGuffey  rising  to  the  emergency  and  discovering  an- 
other and  somewhat  larger  apartment  in  the  next  house 
but  two —  "for  one  of  the  finest  gintlemen  ye  ever  saw 
and  that  quiet,"  etc. — into  which  Jack  would  move 
and  which  the  good  woman  would  insist  on  taking  full 
charge  of  herself. 

It  was  on  one  of  these  blessed  and  always  welcome 
nights,  after  the  two  had  been  dining  at  "a  little  crack 
in  the  wall,"  as  Peter  called  a  near-by  Italian  res- 
taurant, that  he  and  Jack  stopped  to  speak  to  Isaac 
Cohen  whom  they  found  closing  his  shop  for  the  night. 
Cohen  invited  them  in  and  Jack,  after  following  the 
little  tailor  through  the  deserted  shop — all  the  work 
people  had  left — found  himself,  to  his  great  surprise, 
in  a  small  room  at  the  rear,  which  Isaac  opened  with 
a  key  taken  from  his  vest  pocket,  and  which  even 
in  the  dim  light  of  a  single  gas  jet  had  more  the  appear- 
ance of  the  den  of  a  scholar,  or  the  workshop  of  a  scien- 
tist, than  the  private  office  of  a  fashioner  of  clothes. 

Peter  only  stayed  a  moment — long  enough  to  bor- 
row the  second  volume  of  one  of  Isaac's  books,  but 
the  quaint  interior  and  what  it  contained  made  a  grea^ 
impression  on  Jack, — so  much  so  that  when  the  two 
had  said  good-night  and  mounted  the  stairs  to  Peter's 
rooms,  it  was  with  increased  interest  that  the  boy 
listened  to  the  old  fellow  who  stopped  on  every  landing 

275 


PETER 

to  tell  him  some  incident  connected  with  the  little  tailor 
and  his  life :  How  after  his  wife's  death  some  years  be- 
fore, and  his  only  daughter's  marriage — "and  a  great 
affair  it  was,  my  boy,  I  was  there  and  know," — Cohen 
had  moved  down  to  his  shop  and  fitted  up  the  back 
room  for  a  little  shelter  of  his  own,  where  he  had  lived 
with  his  books  and  his  personal  belongings  and  where 
he  had  met  the  queerest  looking  people — with  big 
heads  and  bushy  beards — foreigners,  some  of  them— 
speaking  all  kinds  of  languages,  as  well  as  many  highly 
educated  men  in  town. 

Once  inside  his  own  cosey  rooms  Peter  bustled  about, 
poking  the  fire  into  life,  drawing  the  red  curtains  closer, 
moving  a  vase  of  roses  so  he  could  catch  their  fragrance 
from  where  he  sat,  wheeling  two  big,  easy,  all-embracing 
arm-chairs  to  the  blaze,  rolling  a  small  table  laden  with 
various  burnables  and  pourables  within  reach  of  their 
elbows,  and  otherwise  disporting  himself  after  the  man- 
ner of  the  most  cheery  and  lovable  of  hosts.  This  done, 
he  again  took  up  the  thread  of  his  discourse. 

"Yes!  He's  a  wonderful  old  fellow,  this  Isaac  Cohen," 
he  rattled  on  when  the  two  were  seated.  "You  had  only 
a  glimpse  of  that  den  of  his,  but  you  should  see  his  books 
on  costumes, — he's  an  authority,  you  know, — and  his 
miniatures, — Oh,  a  Cosway,  which  he  keeps  in  his  safe, 
that  is  a  wonder! — and  his  old  manuscripts.  Those 
are  locked  up  too.  And  he's  a  gentleman,  too,  Jack; 
not  once  in  all  the  years  I  have  known  him  have  I  ever 
heard  him  mention  the  word  money  in  an  objectionable 
way,  and  he  has  plenty  of  it  even  if  he  does  press  off 

276 


PETER 

my  coat  with  his  own  hands.  Can  you  recall  anybody 
you  know,  my  boy — even  in  the  houses  where  you  and 
I  have  been  lately,  who  doesn't  let  the  word  slip  out  in 
a  dozen  different  ways  before  the  evening  is  over  ?  And 
best  of  all,  he's  sane, — one  of  the  few  men  whom  it  is 
safe  to  let  walk  around  loose." 

"And  you  like  him?" 

"Immensely." 

"And  you  never  remember  he  is  a  Jew?"  This  was 
one  of  the  things  Jack  had  never  understood. 

"Never; — that's  not  his  fault, — rather  to  his  credit." 

"Why?" 

"Because  the  world  is  against  both  him  and  his  race, 
and  yet  in  all  the  years  I  have  known  him,  nothing  has 
ever  soured  his  temper." 

Jack  struck  a  match,  relit  his  cigar  and  settling  him- 
self more  comfortably  in  his  chair,  said  in  a  positive 
tone: 

"Sour  or  sweet, — I  don't  like  Jews, — never  did." 

"You  don't  like  him  because  you  don't  know  him. 
That's  your  fault,  not  his.  But  you  would  like  him, 
let  me  tell  you,  if  you  could  hear  him  talk.  And  now 
I  think  of  it,  I  am  determined  you  shall  know  him,  and 
right  away.  Not  that  he  cares — Cohen's  friends  are 
among  the  best  men  in  London,  especially  the  better 
grade  of  theatrical  people,  whose  clothes  he  has  made 
and  whose  purses  he  has  kept  full — yes — and  whom  he 
sometimes  had  to  bury  to  keep  them  out  of  Potter's 
field;  and  those  he  knows  here — his  kind  of  people, 
I  mean,  not  yours." 

277 


PETER 

"All  in  his  line  of  business,  Uncle  Peter,"  Jack 
laughed.  "How  much  interest  did  they  pay, — cent  per 
cent?" 

"I  am  ashamed  of  you,  Jack.  Not  a  penny.  Don't 
let  your  mind  get  clogged  up,  my  boy,  with  such  preju- 
dices,— keep  the  slate  of  your  judgment  sponged  clean." 

"But  you  believe  everybody  is  clean,  Uncle  Peter." 

"And  so  must  you,  until  you  prove  them  dirty. 
Now,  will  you  do  me  a  very  great  kindness  and  yourself 
one  as  well  ?  Please  go  downstairs,  rap  three  times  at 
Mr.  Cohen's  shutters — hard,  so  that  he  can  hear  you — 
that's  my  signal — present  my  compliments  and  ask 
him  to  be  kind  enough  to  come  up  and  have  a  cigar 
with  us." 

Jack  leaned  forward  in  his  seat,  his  face  showing  his 
astonishment. 

"You  don't  mean  it?" 

"I  do." 

"All  right." 

The  boy  was  out  of  his  chair  and  clattering  down- 
stairs before  Peter  could  add  another  word  to  his  mes- 
sage. If  he  had  asked  him  to  crawl  out  on  the  roof  and 
drop  himself  into  the  third-story  window  of  the  next 
house,  he  would  have  obeyed  him  with  the  same 
alacrity. 

Peter  wheeled  up  another  chair;  added  some  small 
and  large  glasses  to  the  collection  on  the  tray  and 
awaited  Jack's  return.  The  experience  was  not  new. 
The  stupid,  illogical  prejudice  was  not  confined  to  in- 
experienced lads. 

278 


PETER 

He  had  had  the  same  thing  to  contend  with  dozens 
of  times  before.  Even  Holker  had  once  said:  "Peter, 
what  the  devil  do  you  find  in  that  little  shrimp  of  a  He- 
brew to  interest  you  ?  Is  he  cold  that  you  warm  him, 
or  hungry  that  you  feed  him, — or  lonely  that— 

"Stop  right  there,  Holker!  You've  said  it, — lonely— 
that's  it — lonely!  That's  what  made  me  bring  him  up 
the  first  time  he  was  ever  here.  It  seemed  such  a 
wicked  thing  to  me  to  have  him  at  one  end  of  the 
house — the  bottom  end,  too — crooning  over  a  fire,  and 
I  at  the  top  end  crooning  over  another,  when  one  blaze 
could  warm  us  both.  So  up  he  came,  Holker,  and  now 
it  is  I  who  am  lonely  when  a  week  passes  and  Isaac  does 
not  tap  at  my  door,  or  I  tap  at  his." 

The  distinguished  architect  understood  it  all  a  week 
later  when  the  new  uptown  synagogue  was  being 
talked  of  and  he  was  invited  to  meet  the  board,  and 
found  to  his  astonishment  that  the  wise  little  man  with 
the  big  gold  spectacles,  occupying  the  chair  was  n^ne 
other  than  Peter's  tailor. 

"Our  mutual  friend  Mr.  Grayson,  of  the  Exeter 
Bank,  spoke  to  me  about  you,  Mr.  Morris,"  said  the 
little  man  without  a  trace  of  foreign  accent  and  with  all 
the  composure  of  a  great  banker  making  a  government 
loan;  rising  at  the  same  time,  with  great  dignity  intro- 
ducing Morris  to  his  brother  trustees  and  then  placing 
him  in  the  empty  seat  next  his  own.  After  that,  and 
on  more  than  one  occasion,  there  were  three  chairs 
around  Peter's  blaze,  with  Morris  in  one  of  them. 

All  these  thoughts  coursed  through  Peter's  head  as 
279 


PETER 

Jack  and  Cohen  were  mounting  the  three  flights  of 
stairs. 

"Ah,  Isaac,"  he  cried  at  first  sight  of  his  friend,  "I 
just  wanted  you  to  know  my  boy,  Jack  Breen,  better, 
and  as  his  legs  are  younger  than  mine,  I  sent  him  down 
instead  of  going  myself — you  don't  mind,  do  you?" 

"Mind! — of  course  I  do  not  mind, — but  I  do  know 
Mr.  Breen.  I  first  met  him  many  months  ago — 
when  your  sister  was  here — and  then  I  see  him  going  in 
and  out  all  the  time — and " 

"Stop  your  nonsense,  Isaac; — that's  not  the  way  to 
know  a  man;  that's  the  way  not  to  know  him,  but 
what's  more  to  the  point  is,  I  want  Jack  to  know  you. 
These  young  fellows  have  very  peculiar  ideas  about  a 
good  many  things, — and  this  boy  is  like  all  the  rest — 
some  of  which  ought  to  be  knocked  out  of  his  head,— 
your  race,  for  one  thing.  He  thinks  that  because  you 
are  a  Jew  that  you " 

Jack  uttered  a  smothered,  "Oh,  Uncle  Peter!"  but 
the  old  fellow  who  now  had  the  tailor  in  one  of  his  big 
chairs  and  was  filling  a  thin  wineglass  with  a  brown 
liquid  (ten  years  in  the  wood) — Holker  sent  it — kept 
straight  on.  "Jack's  all  right  inside,  or  I  wouldn't 
love  him,  but  there  are  a  good  many  things  he  has 
got  to  learn,  and  you  happen  to  be  one  of  them." 

Cohen  lay  back  in  his  chair  and  laughed  heartily. 

"Do  not  mind  him,  Mr.  Breen, — do  not  mind  a 
word  he  says.  He  mortifies  me  that  same  way.  And 
now—  '  here  he  turned  his  head  to  Peter — "what 
does  he  think  of  my  race  ?" 

280 


PETER 

"Oh!  he  thinks  you  are  a  lot  of  money-getters  and 
pawnbrokers,  gouging  the  poor  and  squeezing  the 
rich." 

Jack  broke  out  into  a  cold  perspiration : 

"Really,  Uncle  Peter!  Now,  Mr.  Cohen,  won't  you 
please  believe  that  I  never  said  one  word  of  it,"  ex- 
claimed Jack  in  pleading  tones,  his  face  expressing  his 
embarrassment. 

"I  never  said  you  did,  Jack,"  rejoined  Peter  with 
mock  solemnity  in  his  voice.  "I  said  you  thought  so. 
And  now  here  he  is, — look  at  him.  Does  he  look  like 
Scrooge  or  Shylock  or  some  old  skinflint  who —  "  here 
he  faced  Cohen,  his  eyes  brimming  with  merriment — 
"What  are  we  going  to  do  with  this  blasphemer,  Isaac  ? 
Shall  we  boil  him  in  oil  as  they  did  that  old  sixteenth- 
century  saint  you  were  telling  me  about  the  other  night, 
or  shall  we^-?" 

The  little  tailor  threw  out  his  hands — each  finger  an 
exclamation  point — and  laughed  heartily,  cutting  short 
Peter's  tirade. 

"No — no — we  do  none  of  these  dreadful  things  to 
Mr.  Breen;  he  is  too  good  to  be  a  saint,"  and  he  patted 
Jack's  knees — "and  then  again  it  is  only  the  truth. 
Mr.  Breen  is  quite  right;  we  are  a  race  of  money-get- 
ters, and  we  are  also  the  world's  pawnbrokers  and  will 
always  be.  Sometimes  we  make  a  loan  on  a  watch  or  a 
wedding  ring  to  keep  some  poor  soul  from  starving; 
sometimes  it  is  a  railroad  to  give  a  millionaire  a 
yacht,  or  help  buy  his  wife  a  string  of  pearls.  It  is 
quite  the  same,  only  over  one  shop  we  hang  three  gilt 

281 


PETER 

balls :  on  the  other  we  nail  a  sign  which  reads :  '  Finan- 
cial Agents.'  And  it  is  the  same  Jew,  remember,  who 
stands  behind  both  counters.  The  first  Jew  is  over- 
hauled almost  every  day  by  the  police;  the  second  Jew 
is  regarded  as  our  public-spirited  citizen.  So  you  see, 
my  young  friend,  that  it  is  only  a  question  of  the 
amount  of  money  you  have  got  whether  you  loan  on 
rings  or  railroads." 

"  And  whether  the  Christian  lifts  his  hat  or  his  boot," 
laughed  Peter. 

Cohen  leaned  his  elbows  on  his  plump  knees  and 
went  on,  the  slender  glass  still  in  his  hand,  from  which 
now  and  then  he  took  a  sip.  Peter  sat  buried  in  his 
chair,  his  cigar  between  his  fingers.  Jack  held  his 
peace;  it  was  not  for  him  to  air  his  opinions  in  the 
presence  of  the  two  older  men,  and  then  again  the  tailor 
had  suddenly  become  a  savant. 

"Of  course,  there  are  many  things  I  wish  were  dif- 
ferent," the  tailor  continued  in  a  more  thoughtful  tone. 
"Many  of  my  people  forget  their  birthright  and  force 
themselves  on  the  Christian,  trying  to  break  down  the 
fence  which  has  always  divided  us,  and  which  is  really 
our  best  protection.  As  long  as  we  keep  to  ourselves  we 
are  a  power.  Persecution, — and  sometimes  it  amounts 
to  that — is  better  than  amalgamation;  it  brings  out  our 
better  fighting  qualities  and  makes  us  rely  on  ourselves. 
This  is  the  view  of  our  best  thinkers,  and  they  are  right. 
Just  hear  me  run  on!  Why  talk  about  these  things? 
They  are  for  graybeards,  not  young  fellows  with  the 
world  before  them."  Cohen  straightened  up — laid  his 

282 


PETER 

glass  on  the  small  table,  waved  his  hand  in  denial  to 
Peter  who  started  to  refill  it,  and  continued,  turning  to 
Jack:  "And  now  let  me  hear  something  about  your  own 
work,  Mr.  Breen,"  he  said  in  his  kindest  and  most  inter- 
ested voice.  "Mr.  Grayson  tells  me  you  are  cutting  a 
great  tunnel.  Under  a  mountain,  is  it  not?  Ah! — 
that  is  something  worth  doing.  And  here  is  this  old  uncle 
of  yours  with  his  fine  clothes  and  his  old  wine,  who  does 
nothing  but  pore  over  his  musty  bank-books,  and 
here  am  I  in  the  cellar  below,  who  can  only  sew  on 
buttons,  and  yet  we  have  the  impudence  to  criticise 
you.  Really,  I  never  heard  of  such  conceit!" 

"  Oh! — but  itirVt  my  tunnel,"  Jack  eagerly  protested, 
greatly  amused  at  the  Jew's  talk;  "I  am  just  an  assist- 
ant, Mr.  Cohen."  Somehow  he  had  grown  suddenly 
smaller  since  the  little  man  had  been  talking. 

"Yes, — of  course,  we  are  all  assistants;  Mr.  Gray- 
son  assists  at  the  bank,  and  I  assist  my  man,  Jacrb, 
who  makes  such  funny  mistakes  in  the  cut  of  his  trous- 
ers. Oh,  yes,  that  is  quite  the  way  life  is  made  up. 
But  about  this  tunnel  ?  It  is  part  of  this  new  branch,  is 
it  not?  Some  of  my  friends  have  told  me  about  it. 
And  it  is  going  straight  through  the  mountain." 

And  then  before  Jack  or  Peter  could  reply  the  speaker 
branched  out  into  an  account  of  the  financing  of  the 
great  Mt.  Cenis  tunnel,  and  why  the  founder  of  the 
house  of  Rothschild,  who  had  "assisted"  in  its  con- 
struction, got  so  many  decorations  from  foreign  gov- 
ernments; the  talk  finally  switching  off  to  the  enamelled 
and  jewelled  snuff  boxes  of  Baron  James  Rothschild, 

283 


PETER 

whose  collection  had  been  the  largest  in  Europe;  and 
what  had  become  of  it;  and  then  by  one  of  those  illogi- 
cal jumps — often  indulged  in  by  well-informed  men  dis- 
cussing any  subject  that  absorbs  them — brought  up  at 
Voltaire  and  Taine  and  the  earlier  days  of  the  Revolu- 
tion in  which  one  of  the  little  tailor's  ancestors  had 
suffered  spoliation  and  death. 

Jack  sat  silent — he  had  long  since  found  himself  out 
of  his  depth— drinking  in  every  word  of  the  talk,  his 
wonderment  increasing  every  moment,  not  only  over 
Cohen,  but  over  Peter  as  well,  whom  he  had  never  be- 
fore heard  so  eloquent  or  so  learned,  or  so  entertaining. 
When  at  last  the  little  man  rose  to  go,  the  boy,  with  one 
of  those  spontaneous  impulses  which  was  part  of  his 
nature,  sprang  from  his  seat,  found  the  tailor's  hat 
himself,  and  conducting  him  to  the  door,  wished  him 
good-night  with  all  the  grace  and  well-meant  courtesy 
he  would  show  a  prince  of  the  blood,  should  he  ever 
be  fortunate  enough  to  meet  one. 

Peter  was  standing  on  the  mat,  his  back  to  the  fire, 
when  the  boy  returned. 

"  Jack,  you  delight  me! "  the  old  fellow  cried.  "  Your 
father  couldn't  have  played  host  better.  Really,  I  am 
beginning  to  believe  I  won't  have  to  lock  you  up  in  an 
asylum.  You're  getting  wonderfully  sane,  my  boy, — 
real  human.  Jack,  do  you  know  that  if  you  keep  on 
this  way  I  shall  really  begin  to  love  you!" 

"But  what  an  extraordinary  man,"  exclaimed  Jack, 
ignoring  Peter's  compliment  and  badinage.  "Is  there 
anything  he  does  not  know  ?  " 

284 


PETER 

"Yes, — many  things.  Oh!  a  great  many  things. 
He  doesn't  know  how  to  be  rude,  or  ill  bred,  or  purse- 
proud.  He  doesn't  know  how  to  snub  people  who  are 
poorer  than  he  is,  or  to  push  himself  in  where  he  isn't 
wanted;  or  to  talk  behind  people's  backs  after  he  has 
accepted  their  hospitality.  Just  plain  gentleman  jour- 
neyman tailor,  Jack.  And  now,  my  boy,  be  honest. 
Isn't  he  a  relief  after  some  of  the  people  you  and  I  meet 
every  day?" 

Jack  settled  again  in  his  chair.  His  mind  was  not 
at  all  easy. 

"Yes,  he  is,  and  that  makes  me  afraid  I  was  rude. 
I  didn't  mean  to  be." 

"No, — you  acted  just  right.  I  wanted  to  draw  him 
out  so  you  could  hear,  and  you  must  say  that  he  was 
charming.  And  the  best  of  it  is  that  he  could  have 
talked  equally  well  on  a  dozen  other  subjects." 

For  some  time  Jack  did  not  answer.  Despite  Peter's 
good  opinion  of  him,  he  still  felt  that  he  had  either  said 
or  done  something  he  should  be  ashamed  of.  He  knew 
it  was  his  snap  judgment  about  Cohen  that  had  been 
the  cause  of  the  object  lesson  he  had  just  received. 
Peter  had  not  said  so  in  so  many  words — it  was  always 
with  a  jest  or  a  laugh  that  he  corrected  his  faults,  but  he 
felt  their  truth  all  the  same. 

For  some  minutes  he  leaned  back  in  his  chair, 
his  eyes  on  the  ceiling;  then  he  said  in  a  tone  of  con- 
viction : 

"I  was  wrong  about  Mr.  Cohen,  Uncle  Peter.  I  am 
always  putting  my  foot  in  it.  He  is  an  extraordinary 

285 


PETER 

man.  He  certainly  is,  to  listen  to,  whatever  he  is  in  his 
business." 

"No,  Jack,  my  boy — you  were  only  honest,"  Peter 
rejoined,  passing  over  the  covert  allusion  to  the  financial 
side  of  the  tailor.  "You  didn't  like  his  r^e  and  you 
said  so.  Act  first.  Then  you  found  out  you  were 
wron~  and  you  said  so.  Act  second.  Then  you  dis- 
covered you  owed  him  an  ample  apology  and  you 
bowed  him  out  as  if  he  had  been  a  duke.  Act  third. 
And  now  comes  the  epilogue — Better  be  kind  and 
human  than  be  king!  Eh,  Jack?"  and  the  old  gentle- 
man threw  back  his  head  and  laughed  heartily. 

Jack  made  no  reply.  He  was  through  with  Cohen; — 
something  else  was  on  his  mind  of  far  more  importance 
than  the  likes  and  dislikes  of  all  the  Jews  in  Christen- 
dom. Something  he  had  intended  to  lay  before  Peter 
at  the  very  moment  the  old  fellow  had  sent  him  for 
Isaac — something  he  had  come  all  the  way  to  New  York 
to  discuss  with  him;  something  that  had  worried  him  for 
days.  There  was  but  half  an  hour  left;  then  he  must 
get  his  bag  and  say  good-night  and  good-by  for  an- 
other week  or  more. 

Peter  noticed  the  boy's  mood  and  laid  his  hand  on  his 
wrist.  Somehow  this  was  not  the  same  Jack. 

" I  haven't  hurt  you,  my  son,  have  I  ?"  he  asked  with 
a  note  of  tenderness  in  his  voice. 

"Hurt  me!  You  couldn't  hurt  me,  Uncle  Peter!" 
There  was  no  question  of  his  sincerity  as  he  spoke.  It 
sprang  straight  from  his  heart. 

"Well,  then,  what's  the  matter?— out  with  it.  No 
286 


PETER 

secrets  from  blundering  old  Peter,"  he  rejoined  in  a 
satisfied  tone. 

Jack  laughed  gently:  "Well,  sir,  it's  about  the 
work."  It  wasn't;  but  it  might  lead  to  it  later  on. 

"Work! — what's  the  matter  with  the  work!  Any- 
thing wrong?"  There  was  a  note  of  alarm  now  that 
made  Jack  reply  hastily: 

"No,  it  will  be  finished  next  month;  we  are  lining 
up  the  arches  this  week  and  the  railroad  people  have 
already  begun  to  dump  their  cross  ties  along  the  road 
bed.  It's  about  another  job.  Mr.  MacFarlane,  I  am 
afraid,  hasn't  made  much  money  on  the  fill  and  tunnel, 
but  he  has  some  other  work  offered  him  up  in  WTest- 
ern  Maryland,  which  he  may  take,  and  which,  if  he 
does,  may  pay  handsomely.  He  wants  me  to  go  with 
him.  It  means  a  shanty  and  a  negro  cook,  as  near  as  I 
can  figure  it,  but  I  shall  get  used  to  that,  I  suppose. 
WThat  do  you  think  about  it?" 

"Well,"  chuckled  Peter — it  was  not  news;  MacFar- 
lane had  told  him  all  about  it  the  week  before  at  the 
Century — "if  you  can  keep  the  shanty  tight  and  the 
cook  sober  you  may  weather  it.  It  must  be  great  fun 
living  in  a  shanty.  I  never  tried  it,  but  I  would  like  to." 

"Yes,  perhaps  it  is, — but  it  has  its  drawbacks.  I 
can't  come  to  see  you  for  one  thing,  and  then  the  home 
will  be  broken  up.  Miss  Ruth  will  go  back  to  her 
grandmother's  for  a  while,  she  says,  and  later  on  she 
will  visit  the  Fosters  at  Newport  and  perhaps  spend  a 
month  with  Aunt  Felicia."  He  called  her  so  now. 

Jack  paused  for  some  further  expression  of  opinion 
287 


PETER 

from  his  always  ready  adviser,  but  Peter's  eyes  were  still 
fixed  on  the  slow,  dying  fire. 

"  It  will  be  rather  a  rough  job  from  what  I  saw  of  it," 
Jack  went  on.  "We  are  to  run  a  horizontal  shaft  into 
some  ore  deposits.  Mr.  MacFarlane  and  I  have  been 
studying  the  plans  for  some  time;  we  went  over  the 
ground  together  last  month.  That's  why  I  didn't  come 
to  you  last  week." 

Peter  twisted  his  head:  "What's  the  name  of  the 
nearest  town?"  MacFarlane  had  told  him  but  he  had 
forgotten. 

"  Morfordsburg.  I  was  there  once  with  my  father 
when  I  was  a  boy.  He  had  some  ore  lands  near  where 
these  are; — those  he  left  me.  The  Cumberland  prop- 
erty we  always  called  it.  I  told  you  about  it  once.  It 
will  never  amount  to  anything, — except  by  expensive 
boring.  That  is  also  what  hurts  the  value  of  this  new 
property  the  Maryland  Mining  Company  owns.  That's 
what  they  want  Mr.  MacFarlane  for.  Now,  what 
would  you  do  if  you  were  me?" 

"WThat  sort  of  a  town  is  Morfordsburg?"  inquired 
Peter,  ignoring  Jack's  question,  his  head  still  buried 
between  his  shoulders. 

"Oh,  like  all  other  country  villages,  away  from  rail- 
road connection." 

"Any  good  houses, — any  to  rent?" 

"Yes— I  saw  two." 

"And  you  want  my  advice,  do  you,  Jack?"  he  burst 
out,  rising  erect  in  his  seat. 

"Yes." 

288 


PETER 

"Well,  I'd  stick  to  MacFarkne  and  take  Ruth  with 
me." 

Jack  broke  out  into  a  forced  laugh.  Peter  had  arrived 
by  a  short  cut!  Now  he  knew,  he  was  a  mind  reader. 

"She  won't  go,"  he  answered  in  a  voice  that  showed 
he  was  open  to  conviction.  Peter,  perhaps,  had  some- 
thing up  his  sleeve. 

"Have  you  asked  her?"  The  old  fellow's  eyes  were 
upon  him  now. 

"No, — not  in  so  many  words." 

"Well,  try  it.  She  has  always  gone  with  her  father; 
she  loves  the  outdoor  life  and  it  loves  her.  I  never  saw 
her  look  as  pretty  as  she  is  now,  and  she  has  her  horse 
too.  Try  asking  her  yourself,  beg  her  to  come  along  and 
keep  house  and  make  a  home  for  the  three  of  you." 

Jack  leaned  back  in  his  seat,  his  face  a  tangle  of 
hopes  and  fears.  What  was  Uncle  Peter  driving  at, 
anyhow  ? 

"I  have  tried  other  things,  and  she  would  not  listen," 
he  said  in  a  more  positive  tone.  Again  the  two  inter- 
views he  had  had  with  Ruth  came  into  his  mind;  the 
last  one  as  if  it  had  been  yesterday. 

"Try  until  she  does  listen,"  continued  Peter.  "Tell 
her  you  will  be  very  lonely  if  she  doesn't  go,  and  that 
she  is  the  one  and  only  thing  in  Corklesville  that  inter- 
ests you  outside  of  your  work — and  be  sure  you  mention 
the  dear  girl  first  and  the  work  last — and  that  you 
won't  have  another  happy  hour  if  she  leaves  you  in 

the " 

"Oh!— Uncle  Peter!" 

289 


PETER 

"And  why  not?  It's  a  fact,  isn't  it?  You  were 
honest  about  Isaac;  why  not  be  honest  with  Ruth?" 

"lam." 

"No,  you're  not, — you  only  tell  her  half  what's  in 
your  heart.  Tell  her  all  of  it!  The  poor  child  has  been 
very  much  depressed  of  late,  so  Felicia  tells  me,  over 
something  that  troubles  her,  and  I  wouldn't  be  at  all  sur- 
prised if  you  were  at  the  bottom  of  it.  Give  yourself  an 
overhauling  and  find  out  what  you  have  said  or  done  to 
hurt  her.  She  will  never  forget  you  for  pulling  her 
father  out  of  tha*  hole,  nor  will  he." 

Jack  bristled  up:  "I  don't  want  her  to  think  of  me 
in  that  way!" 

"Oh,  you  don't!  don't  you?  Oh,  of  course  not! 
You  want  her  to  think  of  you  as  a  great  and  glorious 
young  knight  who  goes  prancing  about  the  world  doing 
good  from  habit,  and  yet  you  are  so  high  and  mighty 
that — Jack,  you  rascal,  do  you  know  you  are  the  stupid- 
est thing  that  breathes  ?  You're  like  a  turkey,  my  boy, 
trying  to  get  over  the  top  rail  of  a  pen  with  its  head  in 
the  air,  when  all  it  has  to  do  is  to  stoop  a  little  and  march 
out  on  its  toes." 

Jack  rose  from  his  seat  and  walked  toward  the  fire, 
where  he  stood  with  one  hand  on  the  mantel.  He  knew 
Peter  had  a  purpose  in  all  his  raillery  and  yet  he  dared 
not  voice  the  words  that  trembled  on  his  lips;  he  could 
tell  the  old  fellow  everything  in  his  life  except  his  love 
for  Ruth  and  her  refusal  to  listen  to  him.  This  was  the 
bitterest  of  all  his  failures,  and  this  he  would  not  and 
could  not  pour  into  Peter's  ears.  Neither  did  he  want  * 

290 


PETER 

Ruth  to  have  Peter's  help,  nor  Miss  Felicia's;  nor  Mao 
Farlane's;  not  anybody's  help  where  her  heart  was 
concerned.  If  Ruth  loved  him  that  was  enough,  but 
he  wouldn't  have  anybody  persuade  her  to  love  him,  or 
advise  with  her  about  loving  him.  How  much  Peter 
knew  he  could  not  say.  Perhaps! — perhaps  Ruth  told 
him  something! — something  he  was  keeping  to  himself! 

As  this  last  thought  forced  itself  into  his  brain  a  great 
surge  of  joy  swept  over  him.  For  a  brief  moment  he 
stood  irresolute.  One  of  Peter's  phrases  now  rang 
clear:  " Stoop  a  little!"  Stoop ?— hadn't  he  done 
everything  a  man  could  do  to  win  a  woman,  and  had 
he  not  found  the  bars  always  facing  him  ? 

With  this  his  heart  sank  again.  No,  there  was  no 
use  of  thinking  anything  more  about  it,  nor  would  he 
tell  him.  There  were  some  things  that  even  Peter 
couldn't  understand, — and  no  wonder,  when  you  think 
how  many  years  had  gone  by  since  he  loved  any  woman. 

The  chime  of  the  little  clock  rang  out. 

Jack  turned  quickly :  "  Eleven  o'clock,  Uncle  Peter, 
and  I  must  go;  time's  up.  I  hate  to  leave  you." 

"And  what  about  the  shanty  and  the  cook?"  said 
Peter,  his  eyes  searching  Jack's. 

"I'll  go, — I  intended  to  go  all  the  time  if  you  ap- 
proved." 

"And  what  about  Ruth?" 

"Don't  ask  me,  Uncle  Peter,  not  now."  And  he 
hurried  off  to  pack  his  bag. 


291 


CHAPTER  XX 

If  Jack,  after  leaving  Peter  and  racing  for  the  ferry, 
had,  under  Peter's  advice,  formulated  in  his  mind  any 
plan  by  which  he  could  break  down  Ruth's  resolve  to 
leave  both  her  father  and  himself  in  the  lurch  and  go 
out  in  the  gay  world  alone,  there  was  one  factor  which 
he  must  have  left  out  of  his  calculations — and  that  was 
the  unexpected. 

One  expression  of  Peter's,  however,  haunted  him  all 
the  way  home: — that  Ruth  was  suffering  and  that  he 
had  been  the  cause  of  it.  Had  he  hurt  her  ? — and  if  so, 
how  and  when  ?  With  this,  the  dear  girl's  face,  with  the 
look  of  pain  on  it  which  Miss  Felicia  had  noticed,  rose 
before  him.  Perhaps  Peter  was  right.  He  had  never 
thought  of  Ruth's  side  of  the  matter — had  never  realized 
that  she,  too,  might  have  suffered.  To-morrow  he 
would  go  to  her.  If  he  could  not  win  her  for  himself  he 
could,  at  least,  find  out  the  cause  and  help  relieve  her 
pain. 

This  idea  so  possessed  him  that  it  was  nearly 
dawn  before  he  dropped  to  sleep. 

With  the  morning  everything  changed. 

Such  a  rain  had  never  been  known  to  fall — not  in  the 
memory  of  the  oldest  moss-back  in  the  village — if  any 

292 


PETER 

such  ancient  inhabitant  existed.  Twelve  hours  of  it  had 
made  rivers  of  the  streets,  quagmires  of  the  roads,  and 
covered  the  crossings  ankle-deep  with  mud.  It  had  be- 
gun in  the  night  while  Isaac  was  expounding  his  views 
on  snuff  boxes,  tunnels,  and  Voltaire  to  Peter  and  Jack, 
had  followed  Jack  across  the  river  and  had  continued  to 
soak  into  his  clothes  until  he  opened  Mrs.  Hicks's  front 
door  with  his  private  key.  It  was  still  pelting  away  the 
next  morning,  when  Jack,  alarmed  at  its  fury,  bolted  his 
breakfast,  and,  donning  his  oilskins  and  rubber  boots, 
hurried  to  the  brick  office  from  whose  front  windows 
he  could  get  a  view  of  the  fill,  the  culvert,  and  the  angry 
stream,  and  from  whose  rear  windows  could  be  seen 
half  a  mile  up  the  raging  torrent,  the  curve  of  the  un- 
finished embankment  flanking  one  side  of  the  new 
boulevard  which  McGowan  was  building  under  a  con- 
tract with  the  village. 

Hardly  had  he  slipped  off  his  boots  and  tarpaulins 
when  MacFarlane,  in  mackintosh  and  long  rubber 
boots,  splashed  in: 

"Breen,"  said  his  Chief ,  loosening  the  top  button  of 
his  storm  coat  and  threshing  the  water  from  his  cap : 

Jack  was  on  his  feet  in  an  instant: 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  I  wish  you  would  take  a  look  at  the  boulevard  spill- 
way. I  know  McGowan's  work  and  how  he  skins  it 
sometimes,  and  I'm  getting  worried.  Coggins  says  the 
water  is  backing  up,  and  that  the  slopes  are  giving  way. 
You  can  see  yourself  what  a  lot  of  water  is  coming 
down — "  here  they  both  gazed  through  the  open  win- 

293 


PETER 

dow.  "  I  never  saw  that  stream  look  like  that  since  I've 
been  here;  there  must  be  a  frightful  pressure  now  on 
McGowan's  retaining  walls.  We  should  have  a  close 
shave  if  anything  gave  way  above  us.  Our  own  culvert's 
working  all  right,  but  it's  taxed  now  to  its  utmost." 

Jack  unhooked  his  water-proof  from  a  nail  behind 
the  door — he  had  began  putting  on  his  rubber  boots 
again  before  MacFarlane  finished  speaking. 

"He  will  have  to  pay  the  bills,  sir,  if  anything  gives 
way — "  Jack  replied  in  a  determined  voice.  "Garry 
told  me  only  last  week  that  McGowan  had  to  take  care 
of  his  own  water;  that  was  part  of  his  contract.  It 
comes  under  Garry's  supervision,  you  know." 

"Yes,  I  know,  and  that  may  all  be  so,  Breen,"  he 
replied  with  a  flickering  smile,  "but  it  won't  do  us  any 
good, — or  the  road  either.  They  want  to  run  cars  next 
month." 

The  door  again  swung  wide,  and  a  man  drenched  to 
the  skin,  the  water  glistening  on  his  bushy  gray  beard 
stepped  in. 

"I  heard  you  were  here,  sir,  and  had  to  see  you. 
There's  only  four  feet  lee-way  in  our  culvert,  sir,  and 
the  scour's  eating  into  the  underpinning;  I  am  just  up 
from  there.  We  are  trying  bags  of  cement,  but  it  doesn't 
do  much  good." 

MacFarlane  caught  up  his  hat  and  the  two  hurried 
down  stream  to  the  "fill,"  while  Jack,  buttoning  his 
oilskin  jacket  over  his  chest,  and  crowding  his  slouch 
hat  close  to  his  eyebrows  and  ears  strode  out  into  the 
downpour,  his  steps  bent  in  the  opposite  direction. 

294 


PETER 

The  sight  that  met  his  eyes  was  even  more  alarming. 
The  once  quiet  little  stream,  with  its  stretch  of  meadow- 
land  reaching  to  the  foot  of  the  steep  hills,  was  now  a 
swirl  of  angry  reddish  water  careering  toward  the  big 
culvert  under  the  "fill. "  There  it  struck  the  two  flanking 
walls  of  solid  masonry,  doubled  in  volume  and  thus 
baffled,  shot  straight  into  and  under  the  culvert  and  so 
on  over  the  broad  fields  below. 

Up  the  stream  toward  the  boulevard  on  the  other 
side  of  its  sky  line,  groups  of  men  were  already  engaged 
carrying  shovels,  or  lugging  pieces  of  timber  as  they 
hurried  along  its  edge,  only  to  disappear  for  an  in- 
stant and  reappear  again  empty-handed.  Shouts  could 
be  heard,  as  if  some  one  were  giving  orders.  Against 
the  storm-swept  sky,  McGowan's  short,  squat  figure 
was  visible,  his  hands  waving  wildly  to  other  gangs  of 
men  who  were  running  at  full  speed  toward  where  he 
stood. 

Soon  a  knife-edge  of  water  glistened  along  the  crest 
of  the  earth  embankment  supporting  the  roadway  of 
the  boulevard,  scattered  into  a  dozen  sluiceways,  gash- 
ing the  sides  of  the  slopes,  and  then,  before  Jack  could 
realize  his  own  danger,  the  whole  mass  collapsed  only 
to  be  swallowed  up  in  a  mighty  torrent  which  leaped 
straight  at  him. 

Jack  wheeled  suddenly,  shouted  to  a  man  behind 
him  to  run  for  his  life,  and  raced  on  down  stream 
toward  the  "fill"  a  mile  below  where  MacFarlane  and 
his  men,  unconscious  of  their  danger,  were  strengthen- 
ing the  culvert  and  its  approaches. 

295 


PETER 

On  swept  the  flood,  tearing  up  trees,  cabins,  shan- 
ties, fences;  swirling  along  the  tortuous  bed  only  to 
leap  and  swirl  again,  its  solid  front  bristling  with  the 
debris  it  had  wrenched  loose  in  its  mad  onslaught,  Jack 
in  his  line  of  flight  keeping  abreast  of  its  mighty  thrust, 
shouting  as  he  ran,  pressing  into  service  every  man  who 
could  help  in  the  rescue. 

But  MacFarlane  had  already  been  forewarned.  The 
engineer  of  the  morning  express,  who  had  crossed  close 
to  the  boulevard  at  the  moment  the  break  occurred,  had 
leaned  far  out  of  his  cab  as  the  train  thundered  by  at 
right  angles  to  the  "fill,"  and  with  cupped  hands  to  his 
mouth,  had  hurled  this  yell  into  the  ravine: 

"Water!  Look  out!  Everything  busted  up  above! 
Water!  Water!  Run,  for  God's  sake!" 

The  men  stood  irresolute,  but  MacFarlane  sprang  to 
instant  action.  Grabbing  the  man  next  him, — an  Ital- 
ian who  understood  no  English — he  dragged  him 
along,  shouting  to  the  others,  the  crowd  swarming  up, 
throwing  away  their  shovels  in  their  flight  until  the 
whole  posse  reached  a  point  of  safety  near  the  mouth 
of  the  tunnel. 

There  he  turned  and  braced  himself  for  the  shock. 
He  realized  fully  what  had  happened:  McGowan's 
ill-constructed  culvert  had  sagged  and  choked;  a  huge 
basin  of  water  had  formed  behind  it;  the  retaining 
walls  had  been  undermined  and  the  whole  mass  was 
sweeping  down  upon  him.  Would  there  be  enough  of  it 
to  overflow  the  crest  line  of  his  own  "fill"  or  not  ?  If  it 
could  stand  the  first  on-thrust  there  was  one  chance  in 

296 


PETER 

a  hundred  of  its  safety,  provided  the  wing-walls  and  the 
foundations  of  the  culvert  held  up  its  arch,  thus  afford- 
ing gradual  relief  until  the  flood  should  have  spent  its 
force. 

It  was  but  a  question  of  minutes.  He  could  already 
see  the  trees  sway  as  the  mad  flood  struck  them,  the 
smaller  ones  rebounding,  the  large  ones  toppling  over. 
Then  came  a  dull  roar  like  that  of  a  train  through  a 
covered  bridge,  and  then  a  great  wall  of  yellow  suds, 
boiling,  curling,  its  surface  covered  with  sticks,  planks, 
shingles,  floating  barrels,  parts  of  buildings,  dashed  it- 
self against  the  smoothed  earth  slopes  of  his  own"  fill," 
surged  a  third  of  its  height,  recoiled  on  itself,  swirled 
furiously  again,  and  then  inch  by  inch  rose  toward  the 
top.  Should  it  plunge  over  the  crest,  the  "fill"  would 
melt  away  as  a  rising  tide  melts  a  sand  fort,  the  work 
of  months  be  destroyed,  and  his  financial  ruin  be  a 
certainty. 

But  the  man  who  had  crawled  out  on  the  shore  end 
of  the  great  cantilever  bridge  over  the  Ohio,  and  who 
had  with  his  own  hands  practically  set  the  last  rebel- 
lious steel  girder  one  hundred  feet  above  the  water 
level,  had  still  some  resources  left.  Grabbing  a  shovel 
from  a  railroad  employe,  he  called  to  his  men  and  began 
digging  a  trench  on  the  tunnel  end  of  the  "fill"  to  form 
a  temporary  spillway  should  the  top  of  the  flood  reach 
the  crest  of  the  road  bed. 

Fifty  or  more  men  sprang  to  his  assistance  with  pick 
and  shovel  wherever  one  could  stand  and  dig.  The 
water  had  now  reached  within  five  feet  of  the  top:  the 

297 


PETER 

rise  was  slower,  showing  that  the  volume  had  lessened ; 
the  soakage,  too,  was  helping,  but  the  water  still  gained. 
The  bottom  of  the  trench,  cut  transversely  across  the 
road  bed  of  the  "fill,"  out  of  which  the  dirt  was  still 
flying  from  scores  of  willing  shovels,  had  reached  the 
height  of  the  flood  line.  It  was  wide  enough  and  deep 
enough  to  take  care  of  the  slowly  rising  overflow  and 
would  relieve  the  pressure  on  the  whole  structure;  but 
the  danger  was  not  there  What  was  to  be  feared  was 
the  scour  on  the  down-stream — far  side — slope  of 
the  "fill."  This  also,  was  of  loose  earth:  too  great  a 
gulch  might  mean  total  collapse. 

To  lessen  this  scour  MacFarlane  had  looted  a  car- 
load of  plank  switched  on  to  a  siding,  and  a  gang  of 
men  in  charge  of  Jack, — who  had  now  reached  his 
Chief's  side, — were  dragging  them  along  the  down- 
stream slope  to  form  sluices  with  which  to  break  the 
force  of  the  scour. 

The  top  of  the  flood  now  poured  into  the  mouth  of 
the  newly  dug  trench,  biting  huge  mouthfuls  of  earth 
from  its  sides  in  its  rush;  spreading  the  reddish  water 
fan-like  over  the  down-stream  slope:  first  into  gullies; 
then  a  broad  sluiceway  that  sunk  out  of  sight  in  the  soft 
earth;  then  crumblings,  slidings  of  tons  of  sand  and 
gravel,  with  here  and  there  a  bowlder  washed  clean;  the 
men  working  like  beavers, — here  to  free  a  rock,  there  to 
drive  home  a  plank,  the  trench  all  the  while  deepening, 
widening — now  a  gulch  ten  feet  across  and  as  deep, 
now  a  canon  through  which  surged  a  solid  mass  of 
frenzied  water. 

298 


PETER 

With  the  ccfmpletion  of  the  first  row  of  planking 
MacFarlane  took  up  a  position  where  he  could  over- 
look all  parts  of  the  work.  Every  now  and  then  his 
eyes  would  rest  on  a  water-gauge  which  he  had  impro- 
vised from  the  handle  of  a  pick;  the  rise  and  fall  of  the 
wet  mark  showing  him  both  the  danger  and  the  safety 
lines.  He  seemed  the  least  interested  man  in  the  group. 
Once  in  a  while  he  would  consult  his  watch,  counting 
the  seconds,  only  to  return  to  the  gauge. 

That  thousands  of  dollars'  damage  had  so  far  been 
done  did  not  seem  to  affect  him  in  the  least.  Only  when 
Jack  would  call  out  that  everything  so  far  was  solid  on 
the  main  "fill"  did  his  calm  face  light  up. 

Tightening  his  wide  slouch  hat  farther  down  on  his 
head,  he  drew  up  the  tops  of  his  high- water  boots  and 
strode  through  the  slush  to  the  pick-handle.  His 
wooden  record  showed  that  half  an  hour  before  the 
water  had  been  rising  at  the  rate  of  an  inch  every  three 
minutes;  that  it  had  then  taken  six,  and  now  required 
eight!  He  glanced  at  the  sky;  it  had  stopped  raining 
and  a  light  was  breaking  in  the  West. 

Pocketing  his  watch  he  beckoned  to  Jack: 

"The  worst  is  over,  Breen,"  he  said  in  a  voice  of  per- 
fect calmness — the  tone  of  a  doctor  after  feeling  a  pa- 
tient's pulse.  "Our  culvert  is  doing  its  work  and  re- 
lieving the  pressure.  This  water  will  be  out  of  here  by 
morning.  Tell  the  foreman  to  keep  those  planks  mov- 
ing wherever  they  do  any  good,  but  they  won't  count 
much  longer.  You  can  see  the  difference  already  in 
the  overflow.  And  now  go  up  to  the  house  and  tell 

299 


PETER 

Ruth.     She  may  not  know  we  are  all  right  and  will  be 
worrying." 

Jack's  heart  gave  a  bound.  No  more  delightful  duty 
could  devolve  on  him. 

"What  shall  I  tell  her  about  the  damage  if  she  asks 
me,  sir?"  he  demanded,  hiding  his  pleasure  in  a  per- 
functory, businesslike  tone,  "and  she  will." 

"Tell  her  it  means  all  summer  here  for  me  and  no 
new  bonnets  for  her  until  next  winter,"  replied  Mac- 
Farlane  with  a  grim  smile. 

"Yes,  I  suppose,  but  I  referred  to  the  money  loss," 
Jack  laughed  in  reply.  "There  is  no  use  worrying  her 
if  we  are  not  to  blame  for  this."  He  didn't  intend  to 
worry  her.  He  was  only  feeling  about  for  some  topic 
which  would  prolong  his  visit  and  encourage  conver- 
sation. 

"  If  we  are,  it  means  some  thousands  of  dollars  on  the 
wrong  side  of  the  ledger,"  answered  MacFarlane  after 
a  pause,  a  graver  tone  in  his  voice.  "But  don't  tell 
Ruth  that.  Just  give  her  my  message  about  the  bon- 
net— she  will  understand." 

"But  not  if  McGowan  is  liable,"  argued  Jack.  If 
Ruth  was  to  hear  bad  news  it  could  at  least  be  qualified. 

"That  depends  somewhat  on  the  wording  of  his  con- 
tract, Breen,  and  a  good  deal  on  whether  this  village 
wants  to  hold  him  to  it.  I'm  not  crossing  any  bridges 
of  that  kind,  and  don't  you.  What  I'm  worrying  about 
is  the  number  of  days  and  nights  it's  going  to  take  to 
patch  this  work  so  they  can  get  trains  through  our  tun- 
nel— And,  Breen " 

300 


PETER 

"Yes,  sir/'  answered  Jack,  as  he  stopped  and  looked 
over  his  shoulder.     There  were  wings  on  his  feet  now. 
"  Get  into  some  dry  clothes  before  you  come  back." 

While  all  this  had  been  going  on  Ruth  had  stood  at 
the  window  in  the  upper  hall  opposite  the  one  banked 
with  geraniums,  too  horrified  to  move.  She  had 
watched  with  the  aid  of  her  opera-glass  the  wild  tor- 
rent rushing  through  the  meadow,  and  she  had  heard 
the  shouts  of  the  people  in  the  streets  and  the  prolonged 
roar  when  the  boulevard  embankment  gave  way. 

The  hurried  entrance  and  startled  cry  of  the  grocer's 
boy  in  the  kitchen  below,  and  the  loud  talk  that  fol- 
lowed, made  her  move  to  the  head  of  the  stairs.  There 
she  stood  listening,  her  heart  in  her  mouth,  her  knees 
trembling.  Such  expressions  as  "drownded," — "more'n 
a  hundred  of  'em — "  reached  her  ears.  Then  came 
the  words — "de  boss's  work  busted;  ain't  nobody 
seen  him  alive,  so  dey  say." 

For  an  instant  she  clutched  the  hand  rail  to  keep  her 
from  falling,  then  with  a  cry  of  terror  she  caught  up  an 
old  cloth  cape,  bound  a  hat  to  her  head  with  a  loose 
veil,  and  was  downstairs  and  into  the  street  before  the 
boy  had  reached  the  curb. 

"Yes,  mum,"  he  stammered,  breathlessly,  his  eyes 
bulging  from  his  head, — "Oh!  it's  awful,  mum!  Don't 
know  how  many's  drownded!  Everybody's  shovelin* 
on  de  railroad  dump,  but  dere  ain't  nothin'  kin  save 
it,  dey  say!" 

She  raced  on — across  the  long  street,  avoiding  the 
301 


PETER 

puddles  as  best  she  could;  past  the  Hicks  Hotel — no 
sign  of  Jack  anywhere — past  the  factory  fence,  until  she 
reached  the  railroad,  where  she  stopped,  gathered  her 
bedraggled  skirts  in  her  hand  and  then  sped  on  over 
the  cross-ties  like  a  swallow,  her  little  feet  scarce  touch- 
ing the  cinders. 

Jack  had  caught  sight  of  the  flying  girl  as  she  gained 
the  railroad  and  awaited  her  approach;  he  supposed 
she  was  the  half -crazed  wife  or  daughter  of  some  work- 
man, bringing  news  of  fresh  disaster,  until  she  ap- 
proached near  enough  for  him  to  note  the  shape  and 
size  of  her  boots  and  the  way  the  hat  and  veil  framed 
her  face.  But  it  was  not  until  she  uttered  a  cry  of 
agony  and  ran  straight  toward  him,  that  he  sprang  for- 
ward to  meet  her  and  caught  her  in  his  arms  to  keep 
her  from  falling. 

"Oh,  Jack! — where  is  daddy — where — "  she  gasped. 

"Why,  he  is  all  right,  Miss  Ruth, — everybody's  all 
right!  Why  did  you  come  here?  Oh!  I  am  so  sorry 
you  have  had  this  fright!  Don't  answer, — just  lean  on 
me  until  you  get  your  breath." 

"Yes — but  are  you  sure  he  is  safe?  The  grocer's 
boy  said  nobody  had  seen  him  alive." 

"Of  course  I  am  sure!  Just  look  across — there  he 
is;  nobody  conld  ever  mistake  that  old  slouch  hat  of 
his.  And  look  at  the  big 'fill.'  It  hasn't  given  an  inch, 
Miss  Ruth — think  of  it!  What  a  shame  you  have  had 
such  a  fright,"  he  continued  as  he  led  her  to  a  pile  of 
lumber  beside  the  track  and  moved  out  a  dry  plank 
where  he  seated  her  as  tenderly  as  if  she  had  been  a 

302 


PETER 

frightened  child,  standing  over  her  until  she  breathed 
easier. 

"But  then,  if  he  is  safe,  why  did  you  leave  daddy? 
You  are  not  hurt  yourself,  are  you?"  she  exclaimed 
suddenly,  reaching  up  her  hand  and  catching  the 
sleeve  of  his  tarpaulin,  a  great  lump  in  her  throat. 

"Me,  hurt! — not  a  bit  of  it, — not  a  scratch  of  any 
kind, — see!"  As  an  object-lesson  he  stretched  out  his 
arm  and  with  one  clenched  hand  smote  his  chest  gorilla 
fashion. 

"But  you  are  all  wet — "  she  persisted,  in  a  more 
reassured  tone.  "You  must  not  stand  here  in  this 
wind;  you  will  get  chilled  to  the  bone.  You  must 
go  home  and  get  into  dry  clothes; — please  say  you 
will  go?" 

Something  warm  and  scintillating  started  from  Jack's 
toes  as  the  words  left  her  lips,  surged  along  his  spinal 
column,  set  his  finger  tips  tingling  and  his  heart  thump- 
ing like  a  trip  hammer.  She  had  called  him  "Jack!" 
She  had  run  a  mile  to  rescue  him  and  her  father,  and 
she  was  anxious  lest  he  should  endanger  his  precious 
life  by  catching  cold.  Cold! — had  he  been  dragged 
through  the  whirlpool  of  Niagara  in  the  dead  of  winter 
with  the  thermometer  at  zero  and  then  cast  on  a  stranded 
iceberg  he  would  now  be  sizzling  hot. 

Again  she  repeated  her  command, — this  time  in  a 
more  peremptory  tone,  the  same  anxious  note  in  her 
voice. 

"Please  come,  if  daddy  doesn't  want  you  any  more 
you  must  go  home  at  once.  I  wouldn't  have  you  take 

303 


PETER 

cold  for — "  she  did  not  finish  the  sentence;  something 
in  his  face  told  her  that  her  solicitude  might  already 
have  betrayed  her. 

"  Of  course,  I  will  go  just  as  soon  as  you  are  rested  a 
little,  but  you  mustn't  worry  about  me,  Miss  Ruth, 
I  am  as  wet  as  a  rat,  I  know,  but  I  am  that  way  half 
the  time  when  it  rains.  These  tarpaulins  let  in  a  lot  of 
water —  "  here  he  lifted  his  arms  so  she  could  see  the 
openings  herself — "and  then  I  got  in  over  my  boots  try- 
ing to  plug  the  holes  in  the  sluiceway  with  some  plank. 
He  was  looking  down  into  her  eyes  now.  Never  had  he 
seen  her  so  pretty.  The  exercise  had  made  roses  of  her 
cheeks,  and  the  up-turned  face  framed  by  the  thatch 
of  a  bonnet  bound  with  the  veil,  reminded  him  of  a 
Madonna. 

"And  is  everything  all  right  with  daddy?  And  was 
there  nobody  in  the  shanties?"  she  went  on.  "Per- 
haps I  might  better  try  to  get  over  where  he  is; — do  you 
think  I  can  ?  I  would  just  like  to  tell  him  how  glad  I 
am  it  is  no  worse." 

"Yes,  if  you  change  boots  with  me,"  laughed  Jack, 
determined  to  divert  her  mind;  "I  was  nearly  swamped 
getting  back  here.  That  is  where  most  of  this  mud 
came  from — "  and  Jack  turned  his  long,  clay-encrusted 
boot  so  that  Ruth  could  see  how  large  a  section  of  the 
"fill"  he  had  brought  with  him. 

Ruth  began  to  laugh.  There  was  no  ostensible 
reason  why  she  should  laugh;  there  was  nothing  about 
Jack's  make-up  to  cause  it.  Indeed,  she  thought  he 
had  never  looked  so  handsome,  even  if  his  hair  were 

304 


PETER 

plastered  to  his  temples  under  his  water-soaked  hat 
and  his  clothes  daubed  with  mud. 

And  yet  she  did  laugh: — At  the  way  her  veil  got 
knotted  under  her  chin, — so  tightly  knotted  that  Jack 
had  to  take  both  hands  to  loosen  it,  begging  pardon  for 
touching  her  throat,  and  hoping  all  the  while  that  his 
clumsy  fingers  had  not  hurt  her; — at  the  way  her  hat 
was  crumpled,  the  flowers  "never, — never,  being  of  the 
slightest  use  to  anybody  again";  at  her  bedraggled 
skirts — "such  a  sight,  and  sopping  wet." 

And  Jack  laughed,  too, — agreeing  to  everything  she 
said,  until  she  reached  that  stage  in  the  conversation, 
never  omitted  on  occasions  of  this  kind,  when  she  de- 
clared, arching  her  head,  that  she  must  look  like  a  per- 
fect fright,  which  Jack  at  once  refuted  exclaiming  that 
he  had  never  seen  her  look  so — he  was  going  to  say 
"pretty,"  but  checked  himself  and  substituted  "well," 
instead,  adding,  as  he  wiped  off  her  ridiculously  small 
boots,  despite  her  protests,  with  his  wet  handkerchief, — 
that  cloud-bursts  were  not  such  bad  things,  after  all, 
now  that  he  was  to  have  the  pleasure  of  escorting  her 
home. 

And  so  the  two  walked  back  to  the  village,  the  after- 
noon sun,  which  had  now  shattered  the  lowering  clouds, 
gilding  and  glorifying  their  two  faces,  Jack  stopping 
at  Mrs.  Hicks 's  to  change  his  clothes  and  Ruth  keep- 
ing on  to  the  house,  where  he  was  to  join  her  an  hour 
later,  when  the  two  would  have  a  cup  of  tea  and  such 
other  comforts  as  that  young  lady  might  prepare  for 
her  water-soaked  lover. 

305 


CHAPTER  XXI 

If  ten  minutes  make  half  an  hour,  then  it  took  Jack 
that  long  to  rush  upstairs,  two  steps  at  a  time,  burst 
into  his  room,  strip  off  his  boots,  tear  off  his  wet  clothes, 
struggle  into  others  jerked  from  his  wardrobe,  tie  a 
loose,  red-silk  scarf  under  the  rolling  collar  of  his  light- 
blue  flannel  shirt,  slip  into  a  grey  pea-jacket  and  un- 
mentionables, give  his  hair  a  brush  and  a  promise, 
tilt  a  dry  hat  on  one  side  of  his  head  and  skip  down- 
stairs again. 

Old  Mrs.  Hicks  had  seen  him  coming  and  had  tried 
to  catch  him  as  he  flew  out  the  door,  hoping  to  get 
some  more  definite  news  of  the  calamity  which  had 
stirred  the  village,  but  he  was  gone  before  she  could 
reach  the  front  hall. 

He  had  not  thought  of  his  better  clothes;  there  might 
stiH  be  work  to  do,  and  his  Chief  might  again  need 
his  services.  Ruth  would  understand,  he  said  to  him- 
self— all  of  which  was  true.  Indeed,  she  liked  him 
better  in  his  high-water  rubber  boots,  wide  slouch  hat 
and  tarpaulins  than  in  the  more  conventional  suit  of 
immaculate  black  with  which  he  clothed  his  shapely 
body  whenever  he  took  her  to  one  of  the  big  dinners 
at  one  of  the  great  houses  on  Washington  Square. 

306 


PETER 

And  she  liked  this  suit  best  of  all.  She  had  been 
peeping  through  the  curtains  and  her  critical  admiring 
eyes  had  missed  no  detail.  She  saw  that  the  cavalier 
boots  were  gone,  but  she  recognized  the  short  pea-jacket 
and  the  loose  rolling  collar  of  the  soft  flannel  shirt 
circling  the  strong,  bronzed  throat,  and  the  dash  of  red 
in  the  silken  scarf. 

And  so  it  is  not  surprising  that  when  he  got  within 
sight  of  her  windows,  his  cheeks  aflame  with  the  crisp 
air,  his  eyes  snapping  with  the  joy  of  once  more  hearing 
her  voice,  her  heart  should  have  throbbed  with  an  un- 
definable  happiness  and  pride  as  she  realized  that  for 
a  time,  at  least,  he  was  to  be  all  her  own.  And  yet 
when  he  had  again  taken  her  hand — the  warmth  of  his 
last  pressure  still  lingered  in  her  palm — and  had  looked 
into  her  eyes  and  had  said  how  he  hoped  he  had  not 
kept  her  waiting,  all  she  could  answer  in  reply  was  the 
non-committal  remark: 

"Well,  now  you  look  something  like" — at  which 
Jack's  heart  gave  a  great  bound,  any  compliment,  how- 
ever slight,  being  so  much  manna  to  his  hungry  soul; 
Ruth  adding,  as  she  led  the  way  into  the  sitting-room, 
"I  lighted  the  wood  fire  because  I. was  afraid  you  might 
still  be  cold." 

And  ten  minutes  had  been  enough  for  Ruth. 

It  had  been  one  of  those  lightning  changes  which  a 
pretty  girl  can  always  make  when  her  lover  is  expected 
any  instant  and  she  does  not  want  to  lose  a  moment  of 
his  time,  but  it  had  sufficed.  Something  soft  and  cling- 
ing it  was  now;  her  lovely,  rounded  figure  moving  in  its 

307 


PETER 

folds  as  a  mermaid  moves  in  the  surf;  her  hair  shaken 
out  and  caught  up  again  in  all  its  delicious  abandon ;  her 
cheeks,  lips,  throat,  rose-color  in  the  joy  of  her  expec- 
tancy. 

He  sat  drinking  it  all  in.  Had  a  mass  of  outdoor 
roses  been  laid  by  his  side,  their  fragrance  filling  the  air, 
the  beauty  of  their  coloring  entrancing  his  soul,  he  could 
not  have  been  more  intoxicated  by  their  beauty. 

And  yet,  strange  to  say,  only  commonplaces  rose  to 
his  lips.  All  the  volcano  beneath,  and  only  little  spats 
of  smoke  and  dying  bits  of  ashes  in  evidence!  Even  the 
message  of  his  Chief  about  her  not  getting  a  new  bonnet 
all  summer  seemed  a  godsend  under  the  circumstances. 
Had  there  been  any  basis  for  her  self-denial  he  would 
not  have  told  her,  knowing  how  much  anxiety  she 
had  suffered  an  hour  before.  But  there  was  no  real 
good  reason  why  she  should  economize  either  in  bonnets 
or  in  anything  else  she  wanted.  McGowan,  of  course, 
would  be  held  responsible;  for  whatever  damage  had 
been  done  he  would  have  to  pay.  He  had  been  present 
when  the  young  architect's  watchful  and  trained  eye 
had  discovered  some  defects  in  the  masonry  of  the  wing 
walls  of  the  McGowan  culvert  bridging  the  stream,  and 
had  heard  him  tell  the  contractor,  in  so  many  words 
that  if  the  water  got  away  and  smashed  anything  below 
him  he  would  charge  the  loss  to  his  account.  McGowan 
liad  growled  in  dissent,  but  it  had  made  no  impression 
on  Garry,  whose  duty  it  was  to  see  that  the  work  was 
properly  carried  out  and  whose  signature  loosened  the 
village  purse  strings. 

308 


PETER 

None  of  these  details  would  interest  Ruth;  nor  was 
it  necessary  that  they  should.  The  bonnet,  however, 
was  another  matter.  Bonnets  were  worn  over  pretty 
heads  and  framed  lovely  hair  and  faces  and  eyes — one 
especially!  And  then  again  any  pleasantry  of  her 
father's  would  tend  to  relieve  her  mind  after  the  anxiety 
of  the  morning.  Yes,  the  bonnet  by  all  means! 

"Oh,  I  never  gave  you  your  father's  message,"  he 
began,  laying  aside  his  cup,  quite  as  if  he  had  just 
remembered  it.  "I  ought  to  have  done  so  before  you 
hung  up  the  hat  you  wore  a  while  ago." 

Ruth  looked  up,  smiling:  "Why?"  There  was  a 
roguish  expression  about  her  mouth  as  she  spoke.  She 
was  very  happy  this  afternoon. 

"He  says  you  won't  get  a  new  bonnet  all  summer/' 
continued  Jack,  toying  with  the  end  of  the  ribbon  that 
floated  from  her  waist. 

Ruth  put  down  her  cup  and  half  rose  from  her  chair 
All  the  color  had  faded  from  her  cheeks. 

"Did  he  tell  you  that?"  she  cried,  her  eyes  staring 
into  his,  her  voice  trembling  as  if  from  some  sudden 
fright. 

Jack  gazed  at  her  in  wonderment: 

"Yes — of  course  he  did  and —  Why,  Miss  Ruth! — 
Why,  what's  the  matter!  Have  I  said  anything  that 


"Then  something  serious  has  happened,"  she  inter- 
rupted in  a  decided  tone.  "That  is  always  his  message 
to  me  when  he  is  in  trouble.  That  is  what  he  telegraphed 
me  when  he  lost  the  coffer-dam  in  the  Susquehanna. 

309 


PETER 

!— he  did  not  really  tell  you  that,  did  he,  Mr.  Breen  ?" 
The  old  anxious  note  had  returned — the  one  he  had 
heard  at  the  "fill." 

"Yes — but  nothing  serious  has  happened,  Miss 
Ruth,"  Jack  persisted,  his  voice  rising  in  the  intensity 
of  his  conviction,  his  earnest,  truthful  eyes  fixed  on 
hers — "nothing  that  will  not  come  out  all  right  in  the 
end.  Please,  don't  be  worried,  I  know  what  I  am 
talking  about." 

"Oh,  yes,  it  is  serious,"  she  rejoined  with  equal 
positiveness.  "You  do  not  know  daddy.  Nothing 
ever  discourages  him,  and  he  meets  everything  with  a 
smile — but  he  cannot  stand  any  more  losses.  The  ex- 
plosion was  bad  enough,  but  if  this  '  fill '  is  to  be  rebuilt, 
I  don't  know  what  will  be  the  end  of  it.  Tell  me  over 
again,  please — how  did  he  look  when  he  said  it  ? — and 
give  me  just  the  very  words.  Oh,  dear,  dear  daddy! 
What  will  he  do  ? "  The  anxious  note  had  now  fallen 
to  one  of  the  deepest  suffering. 

Jack  repeated  the  message  word  for  word,  all  his 
tenderness  in  his  tones — patting  her  shoulder  in  his 
effort  to  comfort  her — ending  with  a  minute  explana- 
tion of  what  Garry  had  told  him:  but  Ruth  would  not 
be  convinced. 

"But  you  don't  know  daddy,"  she  kept  repeating. 
"You  don't  know  him.  Nobody  does  but  me.  He 
would  not  have  sent  that  message  had  he  not  meant  it. 
Listen!  There  he  is  now!"  she  cried,  springing  to  her 
feet. 

She  had  her  arms  around  her  father's  neck,  her  head 
310 


PETER 

nestling  on  his  shoulder  before  he  had  fairly  entered  the 
door."  Daddy,  dear,  is  it  very  bad?"  she  murmured. 

"Pretty  bad,  little  girl,"  he  answered,  smoothing  her 
cheek  tenderly  with  his  chilled  fingers  as  he  moved 
with  her  toward  the  fire,  "but  it  might  have  been  worse 
but  for  the  way  Breen  handled  the  men." 

"And  will  it  all  have  to  be  rebuilt?" 

She  was  glad  for  Jack,  but  it  was  her  father  who  now 
filled  her  mind. 

"That  I  can't  tell,  Puss" — one  of  his  pet  names  for 
her,  particularly  when  she  needed  comforting — "but 
it's  safe  for  the  night,  anyway." 

"And  you  have  worked  so  hard — so  hard!"  Her 
beautiful  arms,  bare  from  the  elbow,  were  still  around 
his  neck,  her  cheek  pressed  close — her  lovely,  clinging 
body  in  strong  contrast  to  the  straight,  gray,  forceful 
man  in  the  wet  storm-coat,  who  stood  with  arms  about 
her  while  he  caressed  her  head  with  his  brown  fingers. 

"Well,  Puss,  we  have  one  consolation — it  wasn't  our 
fault — the  'fill'  is  holding  splendidly  although  it  has 
had  a  lively  shaking  up.  The  worst  was  over  in  ten 
minutes,  but  it  was  pretty  rough  while  it  lasted.  I 
don't  think  I  ever  saw  water  come  so  fast.  I  saw  you 
with  Breen,  but  I  couldn't  reach  you  then.  Look  out 
for  your  dress,  daughter.  I'm  pretty  wet." 

He  released  her  arms  from  his  neck  and  walked 
toward  the  fire,  stripping  off  his  gray  mackintosh  as 
he  moved.  There  he  stretched  his  hands  to  the  blaze 
and  went  on:  "As  I  say,  the  'fill '  is  safe  and  will  stay 
so,  for  the  water  is  going  down  rapidly;  dropped  ten 

311 


PETER 

feet,  Breen,  since  you  left.  My! — but  this  fire  feels 
good!  Got  into  something  dry — did  you,  Breen? 
That's  right.  But  I  am  not  satisfied  about  the  way  the 
down-stream  end  of  the  culvert  acts" — this  also  was 
addressed  to  Jack — "I  am  afraid  some  part  of  the 
arch  has  caved  in.  It  will  be  bad  if  it  has — we  shall 
know  in  the  morning.  You  weren't  frightened,  Puss, 
were  you?" 

She  did  not  answer.  She  had  heard  that  cheery, 
optimistic  note  in  her  father's  voice  before;  she  knew 
how  much  of  it  was  meant  for  her  ears.  None  of  his 
disasters  were  ever  serious,  to  hear  daddy  talk — 
"only  the  common  lot  of  the  contracting  engineer, 
little  girl,"  he  would  say,  kissing  her  good-night,  while  he 
again  pored  over  his  plans,  sometimes  until  daylight. 

She  crept  up  to  him  the  closer  and  nestled  her  ringers 
inside  his  collar — an  old  caress  of  hers  when  she  was  a 
child,  then  looking  up  into  his  eyes  she  asked  with 
almost  a  throb  of  suffering  in  her  voice,  "Is  it  as  bad 
as  the  coffer-dam,  daddy?" 

Jack  looked  on  in  silence.  He  dared  not  add  a  word 
of  comfort  of  his  own  while  his  Chief  held  first  place  in 
soothing  her  fears. 

MacFarlane  passed  his  hand  over  her  forehead — 
"Don't  ask  me,  child!  Why  do  you  want  to  bother 
your  dear  head  over  such  things,  Puss?"  he  asked,  as 
he  stroked  her  hair. 

"Because  I  must  and  will  know.  Tell  me  the  truth," 
she  demanded,  lifting  her  head,  a  note  of  resolve  in  her 
voice.  "I  can  help  you  the  better  if  I  know  it  all." 

312 


PETER 

Some  of  the  blood  of  one  of  her  great-great-grand- 
mothers, who  had  helped  defend  a  log-house  in  Indian 
times,  was  asserting  itself.  She  could  weep,  but  she 
could  fight,  too,  if  necessary. 

"Well,  then,  I'm  afraid  it  is  worse  than  the  coffer- 
dam," he  answered  in  all  seriousness.  "It  may  be  a 
matter  of  twelve  or  fifteen  thousand  dollars — maybe 
more,  if  we  have  to  rebuild  the  '  fill/  I  can't  tell  yet." 

Ruth  released  her  grasp,  moved  to  the  sofa  and  sank 
down,  her  chin  resting  on  her  hand.  Twelve  or  fifteen 
thousand  dollars!  This  meant  ruin  to  everybody — to 
her  father,  to — a  new  terror  now  flashed  into  her  mind 
— to  Jack — yes,  Jack!  Jack  would  have  to  go  away 
and  find  other  work — and  just  at  the  time,  too,  when 
he  was  getting  to  be  the  old  Jack  once  more.  With  this 
came  another  thought,  followed  by  an  instantaneous  de- 
cision— what  could  she  do  to  help  ?  Already  she  had 
determined  on  her  course.  She  would  work — support 
herself — relieve  her  father  just  that  much. 

An  uncomfortable  silence  followed.  For  some  mo- 
ments no  one  spoke.  Her  father,  stifling  a  sigh,  turned 
slowly,  pushed  a  chair  to  the  fire  and  settled  into  it,  his 
rubber-encased  knees  wide  apart,  so  that  the  warmth  of 
the  blaze  could  reach  most  of  his  body.  Jack  found  a 
seat  beside  him,  his  mind  on  Ruth  and  her  evident 
suffering,  his  ears  alert  for  any  fresh  word  from  his 
Chief. 

"I  forgot  to  tell  you,  Breen,"  MacFarlane  said  at 
last,  "that  I  came  up  the  track  just  now  as  far  as  the 
round-house  with  the  General  Manager  of  the  Road. 

313 


PETER 

He  has  sent  one  of  his  engineers  to  look  after  that  Irish- 
man's job  before  he  can  pull  it  to  pieces  to  hide  his 
rotten  work — that  is,  what  is  left  of  it.  Of  course  it 
means  a  lawsuit  or  a  fight  in  the  Village  Council.  That 
takes  time  and  money,  and  generally  costs  more  than  you 
get.  Fve  been  there  before,  Breen,  and  know." 

"Does  he  understand  about  McGowan's  contract  ?" 
inquired  Jack  mechanically,  his  eyes  on  Ruth.  Her 
voice  still  rang  in  his  ears — its  pathos  and  suffering 
stirred  him  to  his  very  depths. 

"Yes — I  told  him  all  about  it,"  MacFarlane  replied. 
"The  Road  will  stand  behind  us — so  the  General 
Manager  says — but  every  day's  delay  is  ruinous  to  them. 
It  will  be  night-and-day  work  for  us  now,  and  no  let-up. 
I  have  notified  the  men."  He  rose  from  his  seat  and 
crossed  to  his  daughter's  side,  and  leaning  over,  drew 
her  toward  him:  "Brace  up,  little  girl,"  there  was 
infinite  tenderness  in  his  cadences — "it's  all  in  a  life- 
time. There  are  only  two  of  us,  you  know — just  you 
and  me,  daughter — just  you  and  me — just  two  of  us. 
Kiss  me,  Puss." 

Regaining  his  full  height  he  picked  up  his  storm- 
coat  from  the  chair  where  he  had  flung  it,  and  with  the 
remark  to  Jack,  that  he  would  change  his  clothes, 
moved  toward  the  door.  There  he  beckoned  to  him, 
waited  until  he  had  reached  his  side,  and  whispering 
in  his  ear:  "Talk  to  her  and  cheer  her  up,  Breen. 
Poor  little  girl — she  worries  so  when  anything  like  this 
happens" — mounted  the  stairs  to  his  room. 

"  Don't  worry,  Miss  Ruth,"  said  Jack  in  comforting 
314 


PETER 

tones  as  he  returned  to  where  she  sat.    "We  will  all  pull 
out  yet." 

"  It  is  good  of  you  to  say  so,"  she  replied,  lifting  her 
head  and  leaning  back  so  that  she  could  look  into  his 
eyes  the  better,  "  but  I  know  you  don't  think  so.  Daddy 
was  just  getting  over  his  losses  on  the  Susquehanna 
bridge.  This  work  would  have  set  him  on  his  feet. 
Those  were  his  very  words — and  he  was  getting  so 
easy  in  his  mind,  too — and  we  had  planned  so  many 
things!" 

"But  you  can  still  go  to  Newport,"  Jack  pleaded. 
"We  will  be  here  some  months  yet,  and 

"Oh — but  I  won't  go  a  step  anywhere.  I  could  not 
leave  him  now — that  is,  not  as  long  as  I  can  help  him." 

"But  aren't  you  going  to  the  Fosters'  and  Aunt 
Felicia's?"  She  might  not  be,  but  it  was  good  all  the 
same  to  hear  her  deny  it. 

"Not  to  anybody's!"  she  replied,  with  an  emphasis 
that  left  no  doubt  in  his  mind. 

Jack's  heart  gave  a  bound. 

"But  you  were  going  if  we  went  to  Morfordsburg," 
he  persisted.  He  was  determined  to  get  at  the  bottom 
of  all  his  misgivings.  Perhaps,  after  all,  Peter  was 
right. 

Ruth  caught  her  breath.  The  name  of  the  town  had 
reopened  a  vista  which  her  anxiety  over  her  father's 
affairs  had  for  the  moment  shut  out. 

"  Well,  but  that  is  over  now.  I  am  going  to  stay  here 
and  help  daddy."  Again  the  new  fear  tugged  at  her 
heart.  "You  are  going  to  stay,  too,  aren't  you,  Mr. 

315 


PETER      . 

Breen  ?"  she  added  in  quick  alarm.  "You  won't  leave 
him,  will  you  ? — not  if—  "  again  the  terrible  money  loss 
rose  before  her.  What  if  there  should  not  be  money 
enough  to  pay  Jack? 

"Me!     Why,  Miss  Ruth!" 

"But  suppose  he  was  not  able  to — "  she  could  not 
frame  the  rest  of  the  sentence. 

"You  can't  suppose  anything  that  would  make  me 
leave  him,  or  the  work."  This  also  came  with  an 
emphasis  of  positive  certainty.  "I  have  never  been  so 
happy  as  I  have  been  here.  I  never  knew  what  it  was 
to  be  myself.  I  never  knew,"  he  added  in  softened 
tones,  "what  it  was  to  really  live  until  I  joined  your 
father.  Only  last  night  Uncle  Peter  and  I  were  talking 
about  it.  '  Stick  to  Mac/  the  dear  old  fellow  said."  It 
was  to  Ruth,  but  he  dared  not  express  himself,  except  in 
parables. 

"Then  you  had  thought  of  going?"  she  asked  quick- 
ly, a  shadow  falling  across  her  face. 

"  No —  "  he  hesitated — "  I  had  only  thought  of  staying. 
It  was  you  who  were  going — I  was  all  broken  up  about 
being  left  here  alone,  and  Uncle  Peter  wanted  to  know 
why  I  did  not  beg  you  to  stay,  and  I " 

Ruth  turned  her  face  toward  him. 

"  Well,  I  am  going  to  stay,"  she  answered  simply.  She 
did  not  dare  to  trust  herself  further. 

"Yes! — and  now  I  don't  care  what  happens!"  he 
exclaimed  with  a  thrill  in  his  voice.  "  If  you  will  only 
trust  me,  Miss  Ruth,  and  let  me  come  in  with  you  and 
your  father.  Let  me  help!  Don't  let  there  be  only 

316 


PETER 

two — let  us  be  three!  Don't  you  see  what  a  difference 
it  would  make?  I  will  work  and  save  every  penny  I 
can  for  him  and  take  every  bit  of  the  care  from  his 
shoulders;  but  can't  you  understand  how  much  easier 
it  would  be  if  you  would  only  let  me  help  you  too  ? 
I  could  hardly  keep  the  tears  back  a  moment  ago  when 
I  saw  you  sink  down  here.  I  can't  see  you  unhappy 
like  this  and  not  try  to  comfort  you." 

"You  do  help  me,"  she  murmured  softly.  Her  eyes 
had  now  dropped  to  the  cushion  at  her  side. 

"Yes,  but  not—  Oh,  Ruth,  don't  you  see  how  I 
love  you!  What  difference  does  this  accident  make — 
what  difference  does  anything  make  if  we  have  each 
other  ?"  He  had  his  hand  on  hers  now,  and  was  bend- 
ing over,  his  eyes  eager  for  some  answer  in  her  own. 
"I  have  suffered  so,"  he  went  on,  "and  I  am  so  tired 
and  so  lonely  without  you.  When  you  wouldn't  under- 
stand me  that  time  when  I  came  to  you  after  the  tunnel 
blew  up,  I  went  about  like  one  in  a  dream — and  then  I 
determined  to  forget  it  all,  and  you,  and  everything — 
but  I  couldn't,  and  I  can't  now.  Maybe  you  won't 
listen — but  please " 

Ruth  withdrew  her  hand  quickly  and  straightened  her 
shoulders.  The  mention  of  the  tunnel  and  what 
followed  had  brought  with  it  a  rush  of  memories  that 
had  caused  her  the  bitterest  tears  of  her  life.  And  then 
again  what  did  he  mean  by  "helping"  ? 

"Jack,"  she  said  slowly,  as  if  every  word  gave  her 
pain,  "listen  to  me.  When  you  saved  my  father's 
life  and  I  wanted  to  tell  you  how  much  I  thanked 

317 


PETER 

you  for  it,  you  would  not  let  me  tell  you.     Is  not  that 
true?" 

"I  did  not  want  your  gratitude,  Ruth,"  he  pleaded  in 
excuse,  his  lips  quivering,  "I  wanted  your  love." 

"And  why,  then,  should  I  not  say  to  you  now  that 
I  do  not  want  your  pity?     Is  it  because  you  are — 
her  voice  sank  to  a  whisper,  every  note  told  of  her 
suffering — "you  are — sorry  for  me,  Jack,  that  you  tell 
me  you  love  me  ?  " 

Jack  sprang  to  his  feet  and  stood  looking  down  upon 
her.  The  cruelty  of  her  injustice  smote  his  heart.  Had 
a  man's  glove  been  dashed  in  his  face  he  could  not 
have  been  more  incensed.  For  a  brief  moment  there 
surged  through  him  all  he  had  suffered  for  her  sake; 
the  sleepless  nights,  the  days  of  doubts  and  misunder- 
standings! And  it  had  come  to  this!  Again  he  was 
treated  with  contempt — again  his  heart  and  all  it  held 
was  trampled  on.  A  wild  protest  rose  in  his  throat 
and  trembled  on  his  lips. 

At  that  instant  she  raised  her  eyes  and  looked  into 
his.  A  look  so  pleading — so  patient — so  weary  of  the 
struggle — so  ready  to  receive  the  blow — that  the  hot 
words  recoiled  in  his  throat.  He  bent  his  head  to 
search  her  eyes  the  better.  Down  in  their  depths,  as 
one  sees  the  bottom  of  a  clear  pool  he  read  the  truth, 
and  with  it  came  a  reaction  that  sent  the  hot  blood 
rushing  through  his  veins. 

"Sorry  for  you,  my  darling!"  he  burst  out  joyously — 
"I  who  love  you  like  my  own  soul!  Oh,  Ruth! — Ruth! 
—my  beloved!" 

318 


PETER 

He  had  her  in  his  arms  now,  her  cheek  to  his,  her 
yielding  body  held  close. 
Then  their  lips  met. 

The  Scribe  lays  down  his  pen.  This  be  holy  ground 
on  which  we  tread.  All  she  has  she  has  given  him: 
all  the  fantasies  of  her  childhood,  all  the  dreams  of  her 
girlhood,  all  her  trust,  her  loyalty — her  reverence — all 
to  the  very  last  pulsation  of  her  being. 

And  this  girl  he  holds  in  his  arms!  So  pliant,  so 
yielding,  so  pure  and  undefiled!  And  the  silken  sheen 
and  intoxicating  perfume  of  her  hair,  and  the  trembling 
lashes  shading  the  eager,  longing,  soul-hungry  eyes; 
and  the  way  the  little  pink  ears  nestle;  and  the  fair, 
white,  dovelike  throat,  with  its  ripple  of  lace.  And 
then  the  dear  arms  about  his  neck  and  the  soft  clinging 
fingers  that  are  intertwined  with  his  own!  And  more 
wonderful  still,  the  perfect  unison,  the  oneness,  the 
sameness;  no  jar,  no  discordant  note;  mind,  soul, 
desire — a  harmony. 

The  wise  men  say  there  are  no  parallels  in  nature; 
that  no  one  thing  in  the  wide  universe  exactly  mates  and 
matches  any  other  one  thing;  that  each  cloud  has 
differed  from  every  other  cloud-form  in  every  hour  of 
the  day  and  night,  to-day,  yesterday  and  so  on  back 
through  the  forgotten  centuries;  that  no  two  leaves  in 
form,  color,  or  texture,  lift  the  same  faces  to  the  sun  on 
any  of  the  million  trees;  that  no  wave  on  any  beach 
curves  and  falls  as  any  wave  has  curved  and  fallen 
before — not  since  the  planet  cooled.  And  so  it  is  with 

319 


PETER 

the  drift  of  wandering  winds;  with  the  whirl  and 
crystals  of  driving  snow,  with  the  slant  and  splash  of 
rain.  And  so,  too,  with  the  flight  of  birds;  the  dash 
and  tumble  of  restless  brooks;  the  roar  of  lawless 
thunder  and  the  songs  of  birds. 

The  one  exception  is  when  we  hold  in  our  arms  the 
woman  we  love,  and  for  the  first  time  drink  in  her 
willing  soul  through  her  lips.  Then,  and  only  then, 
does  the  note  of  perfect  harmony  ring  true  through  the 
spheres. 

For  a  long  time  they  sat  perfectly  still.  Not  many 
words  had  passed,  and  these  were  only  repetitions  of 
those  they  had  used  before.  "Such  dear  hands,"  Jack 
would  say,  and  kiss  them  both  up  and  down  the  fingers, 
and  then  press  the  warm,  pink  shell  palm  to  his  lips 
and  kiss  it  again,  shutting  his  eyes,  with  the  reverence 
of  a  devotee  at  the  feet  of  the  Madonna. 

"And,  Jack  dear/'  Ruth  would  murmur,  as  if  some 
new  thought  had  welled  up  in  her  heart — and  then 
nothing  would  follow,  until  Jack  would  loosen  his  clasp 
a  little — just  enough  to  free  the  dear  cheek  and  say: 

"Go  on,  my  darling,"  and  then  would  come — 

"Oh,  nothing,  Jack — I — "  and  once  more  their  lips 
would  meet. 

It  was  only  when  MacFarlane's  firm  step  was  heard 
on  the  stairs  outside  that  the  two  awoke  to  another 
world.  Jack  reached  his  feet  first. 

"Shall  we  tell  him  ?"  he  asked,  looking  down  into  her 
face. 

"  Of  course,  tell  him,"  braved  out  Ruth,  uptilting  her 
320 


PETER 

head  with  the  movement  of  a  fawn  surprised  in  the 
forest. 

"When?"  asked  Jack,  his  eager  eyes  on  the  opening 
door. 

"Now,  this  very  minute.  I  never  keep  anything 
from  daddy." 

MacFarlane  came  sauntering  in,  his  strong,  deter- 
mined, finely  cut  features  illumined  by  a  cheery  smile. 
He  had  squared  things  with  himself  while  he  had  been 
dressing:  "Hard  lines,  Henry,  isn't  it?"  he  had  asked 
of  himself,  a  trick  of  his  when  he  faced  any  disaster  like 
the  present.  "  Better  get  Ruth  off  somewhere,  Henry, 
don't  you  think  so  ?  Yes,  get  her  off  to-morrow.  The 
little  girl  can't  stand  everything,  plucky  as  she  is."  It 
was  this  last  thought  of  his  daughter  that  had  sent  the 
cheery  smile  careering  around  his  firm  lips.  No  glum 
face  for  Ruth! 

They  met  him  half-way  down  the  room,  the  two 
standing  together,  Jack's  arm  around  her  waist. 

"Daddy!" 

"Yes,  dear."  He  had  not  yet  noted  the  position  of 
the  two,  although  he  had  caught  the  joyous  tones  in  her 
voice. 

"  Jack  and  I  want  to  tell  you  something.  You  won't 
be  cross,  will  you  ?" 

"Cross,  Puss!"  He  stopped  and  looked  at  her  won- 
deringly.  Had  Jack  comforted  her?  Was  she  no 
longer  worried  over  the  disaster  ? 

Jack  released  his  arm  and  would  have  stepped  for- 
ward, but  she  held  him  back. 

321 


PETER 

"No,  Jack, — let  me  tell  him.  You  said  a  while  ago, 
daddy,  that  there  were  only  two  of  us — just  you  and 
I — and  that  it  had  always  been  so  and — 

"Well,  isn't  it  true,  little  girl?"  It's  extraordinary 
how  blind  and  stupid  a  reasonably  intelligent  father 
can  be  on  some  occasions,  and  this  one  was  as  blind  as 
a  cave-locked  fish. 

"Yes,  it  was  true,  daddy,  when  you  went  upstairs, 
but — but — it  isn't  true  any  more!  There  are  three  of 
us  now!"  She  was  trembling  all  over  with  uncontroll- 
able joy,  her  voice  quavering  in  her  excitement. 

Again  Jack  tried  to  speak,  but  she  laid  her  hand  on 
his  lips  with — 

"No,  please  don't,  Jack — not  yet — you  will  spoil 
everything." 

MacFarlane  still  looked  on  in  wonderment.  She  was 
much  happier,  he  could  see,  and  he  was  convinced  that 
Jack  was  in  some  way  responsible  for  the  change,  but 
it  was  all  a  mystery  yet. 

"Three  of  us!"  MacFarlane  repeated  mechanically 

-"well,  who  is  the  other,  Puss  ?" 

"Why,  Jack,  of  course!  Who  else  could  it  be  but 
Jack?  Oh!  Daddy! — Please — please — we  love  each 
other  so!" 

That  night  a  telegram  went  singing  down  the  wires 
leaving  a  trail  of  light  behind.  A  sleepy,  tired  girl  be- 
hind an  iron  screen  recorded  it  on  a  slip  of  yellow 
paper,  enclosed  it  in  an  envelope,  handed  it  to  a  half- 
awake  boy,  who  strolled  leisurely  up  to  Union  Square, 

322 


PETER 

turned  into  Fifteenth  Street,  mounted  Peter's  front 
stoop  and  so  on  up  three  flights  of  stairs  to  Peter's  door. 
There  he  awoke  the  echoes  into  life  with  his  knuckles. 

In  answer,  a  charming  and  most  courtly  old  gentle- 
man in  an  embroidered  dressing-gown  and  slippers,  a 
pair  of  gold  spectacles  pushed  high  up  on  his  round, 
white  head,  his  index  finger  marking  the  place  in  his 
book,  opened  the  door. 

"Telegram  for  Mr.  Grayson,"  yawned  the  boy. 

Ah!  but  there  were  high  jinks  inside  the  cosey  red 
room  with  its  low  reading  lamp  and  easy  chairs,  when 
Peter  tore  that  envelope  apart. 

"Jack — Ruth — engaged!"  he  cried,  throwing  down 
his  book.  "MacFarlane  delighted—  What! — what? 
Oh,  Jack,  you  rascal! — you  did  take  my  advice,  did 
you?  Well!— well!  I'll  write  them  both-  No,  I'll 
telegraph  Felicia—  No,  I  won't!— Fll—  Well!— well! 
— well!  Did  you  ever  hear  anything  like  that?"  and 
again  his  eyes  devoured  the  yellow  slip. 

Not  a  word  of  the  freshet;  of  the  frightful  loss;  of 
the  change  of  plans  for  the  summer;  of  the  weeks  of 
delay  and  the  uncertain  financial  outlook!  And  alas, 
dear  reader — not  a  syllable,  as  you  have  perhaps  noticed, 
of  poor  daddy  tottering  on  the  brink  of  bankruptcy; 
nor  the  slightest  reference  to  brave  young  women  going 
out  alone  in  the  cold,  cold  world  to  earn  their  bread! 
WTiat  were  floods,  earthquakes,  cyclones,  poverty,  debt 
—what  was  anything  that  might,  could,  would  or  should 
happen,  compared  to  the  joy  of  their  plighted  troth! 


323 


CHAPTER  XXII 

Summer  has  come :  along  the  banks  of  the  repentant 
stream  the  willows  are  in  full  leaf;  stretches  of  grass, 
braving  the  coal  smoke  and  dust  hide  the  ugly  red 
earth.  The  roads  are  dry  again;  the  slopes  of  the 
' 'fill"  once  more  are  true;  all  the  arches  in  the  mouth 
of  the  tunnel  are  finished;  the  tracks  have  been  laid 
and  the  first  train  has  crawled  out  on  the  newly  tracked 
road  where  it  haggled,  snorted  and  stopped,  only  to 
crawl  back  and  be  swallowed  by  The  Beast. 

And  with  the  first  warm  day  came  Miss  Felicia. 
"When  your  wretched,  abominable  roads,  my  dear, 
dry  up  so  that  a  body  can  walk  without  sinking  up  to 
their  neck  in  mud —  "  ran  Miss  Felicia's  letter  in  answer 
to  Ruth's  invitation, — "Fll  come  down  for  the  night," 
and  she  did,  bringing  Ruth  half  of  her  laces,  now  that 
she  was  determined  to  throw  herself  away  on  "that 
good-for  nothing —  Yes,  Jack,  I  mean  you  and  no- 
body else,  and  you  needn't  stand  there  laughing  at  me, 
for  every  word  of  it's  true;  for  what  in  the  world  you 
two  babes  in  the  wood  are  going  to  live  on  no  mortal 
man  knows;"  Ruth  answering  with  her  arm  tight 
around  the  dear  lady's  neck, — a  liberty  nobody, — not 
even  Peter,  ever  dared  take — and  a  whisper  in  her  ear 

324 


PETER 

that  Jack  was  the  blessedest  ever,  and  that  she  loved 
him  so  sometimes  she  was  wellnigh  distracted — a  state- 
ment which  the  old  lady  remarked  was  literally  true. 

And  we  may  be  sure  that  Peter  came  too — and  we 
may  be  equally  positive  that  no  impassable  roads  could 
have  held  him  back.  Indeed,  on  the  very  afternoon  of 
the  very  day  following  the  receipt  of  the  joyful  tele- 
gram, he  had  closed  his  books  with  a  bang,  performed 
the  Moses  act  until  he  had  put  them  into  the  big  safe, 
slipped  on  his  coat,  given  an  extra  brush  to  his  hat  and 
started  for  the  ferry.  All  that  day  his  face  had  been  in 
a  broad  smile;  even  the  old  book-keeper  noticed  it  and 
so  did  Patrick,  the  night-watchman  and  sometimes 
porter;  and  so  did  the  line  of  depositors  who  inched 
along  to  his  window  and  were  greeted  with  a  flash- 
light play  of  humor  on  his  face  instead  of  the  more  se- 
date, though  equally  kindly  expression  which  always 
rested  on  his  features  when  at  work. 

But  that  was  nothing  to  the  way  he  hugged  Jack  and 
Ruth — separately — together — then  Ruth,  then  Jack — 
and  then  both  together  again,  only  stopping  at  Mac- 
Farlane,  whose  hand  he  grabbed  with  a  "Great  day! 
hey?  Great  day!  By  Cricky,  Henry,  these  are  the 
things  that  put  new  wine  into  old  leather  bottles  like 
you  and  me." 

And  this  was  not  all  that  the  spring  and  summer  had 
brought.  Fresh  sap  had  risen  in  Jack's  veins.  This 
girl  by  his  side  was  his  own — something  to  work  for — 
something  to  fight  for.  MacFarlane  felt  the  expansion 
and  put  him  in  full  charge  of  the  work,  relieving  him 

325 


PETER 

often  in  the  night  shifts,  when  the  boy  would  catch  a  few 
hours'  sleep,  and  when,  you  may  be  sure,  he  stopped 
long  enough  at  the  house  to  get  his  arms  around  Ruth 
before  he  turned  in  for  the  night  or  the  morning,  or 
whenever  he  did  turn  in. 

As  to  the  injury  which  McGowan's  slipshod  work 
had  caused  to  the  "fill,"  the  question  of  damages  and 
responsibility  for  the  same  still  hung  in  the  air.  The 
"fill"  did  not  require  rebuilding — nor  did  any  part  of 
the  main  work — a  great  relief.  The  loss  had  not,  there- 
fore, been  as  great  as  MacFarlane  had  feared.  More- 
over, the  scour  and  slash  of  the  down-stream  slope, 
thanks  to  Jack's  quick  work,  required  but  few  weeks 
to  repair;  the  culvert,  contrary  to  everybody's  expecta- 
tion, standing  the  test,  and  the  up-stream  slope  showing 
only  here  and  there  marks  of  the  onslaught.  The  wing 
walls  were  the  worst;  these  had  to  be  completely  re- 
built, involving  an  expense  of  several  thousands  of  dol- 
lars, the  exact  amount  being  one  point  in  the  discussion. 

Garry,  to  his  credit,  had  put  his  official  foot  down 
with  so  strong  a  pressure  that  McGowan,  fearing  that 
he  would  have  to  reconstruct  everything  from  the  bed 
of  the  stream  up,  if  he  held  out  any  longer,  agreed  to 
arbitrate  the  matter,  he  selecting  one  expert  and  Mac- 
Farlane the  other;  and  the  Council — that  is,  Garry — the 
third.  MacFarlane  had  chosen  the  engineer  of  the 
railroad  who  had  examined  McGowan's  masonry  an 
hour  after  the  embankment  had  given  way.  McGowan 
picked  out  a  brother  contractor  and  Garry  wrote  a  per- 
sonal letter  to  Holker  Morris,  following  it  up  by  a  per- 

326 


PETER 

sonal  visit  to  the  office  of  the  distinguished  architect, 
who,  when  he  learned  that  not  only  Garry,  MacFar- 
lane,  and  Jack  were  concerned  in  the  outcome  of  the  in- 
vestigation, but  also  Ruth — whose  marriage  might  de- 
pend on  the  outcome, — broke  his  invariable  rule  of  never 
getting  mixed  up  in  anybody's  quarrels,  and  accepted 
the  position  without  a  murmur. 

This  done  everybody  interested  sat  down  to  await  the 
result  of  the  independent  investigations  of  each  expert, 
Garry  receiving  the  reports  in  sealed  envelopes  and 
locking  them  in  the  official  safe,  to  be  opened  in  full 
committee  at  its  next  monthly  meeting,  when  a  final 
report,  with  recommendations  as  to  liability  and  costs, 
would  be  drawn  up;  the  same,  when  adopted  by  a  ma- 
jority of  the  Council  the  following  week,  to  be  binding. 

It  was  during  this  suspense — it  happened  really  on 
the  morning  succeeding  the  one  on  which  Garry  had 
opened  the  official  envelopes — that  an  envelope  of 
quite  a  different  character  was  laid  on  Jack's  table  by 
the  lady  with  the  adjustable  hair,  who  invariably  made 
herself  acquainted  with  as  much  of  that  young  gentle- 
man's mail  as  could  be  gathered  from  square  envelopes 
sealed  in  violet  wax,  or  bearing  family  crests  in  low 
relief,  or  stamped  with  monograms  in  light  blue  giving 
out  delicate  perfumes,  each  one  of  which  that  lady 
sniffed  with  great  satisfaction;  to  say  nothing  of  busi- 
ness addresses  and  postal-cards, — the  latter  being  read- 
able, and,  therefore,  her  delight. 

This  envelope,  however,  was  different  from  any  she 
had  ever  fumbled,  sniffed  at,  or  pondered  over.  It 

327 


PETER 

was  not  only  of  unusual  size,  but  it  bore  in  the  upper 
left-hand  corner  in  bold  black  letters  the  words : 
ARTHUR  BREEN  &  COMPANY, 
BANKERS. 

It  was  this  last  word  which  set  the  good  woman  to 
thinking.  Epistles  from  banks  were  not  common, — 
never  found  at  all,  in  fact,  among  the  letters  of  her 
boarders. 

Jack  was  even  more  astonished. 

"Call  at  the  office,"  the  letter  ran,  "the  first  time  you 
are  in  New  York, — the  sooner  the  better.  I  have  some 
information  regarding  the  ore  properties  that  may  in- 
terest you." 

As  the  young  fellow  had  not  heard  from  his  uncle  in 
many  moons,  the  surprise  was  all  the  greater.  Nor,  if 
the  truth  be  known,  had  he  laid  eyes  on  that  gentleman 
since  he  left  the  shelter  of  his  home,  except  at  Corinne's 
wedding, — and  then  only  across  the  church,  and  again 
in  the  street,  when  his  uncle  stopped  and  shook  his  hand 
in  a  rather  perfunctory  way,  complimenting  him  on  his 
bravery  in  rescuing  MacFarlane,  an  account  of  which 
he  had  seen  in  the  newspapers,  and  ending  by  hoping 
that  his  new  life  would  "drop  some  shekels  into  his 
clothes."  Mrs.  Breen,  on  the  contrary,  while  she  had 
had  no  opportunity  of  expressing  her  mental  attitude 
toward  the  exile,  never  having  seen  him  since  he  walked 
out  of  her  front  door,  was  by  no  means  oblivious  to 
Jack's  social  and  business  successes.  "  I  hear  Jack  was 
at  Mrs.  Portman's  last  night,"  she  said  to  her  husband 
the  morning  after  one  of  the  ex-Clearing  House  Mag- 

328 


PETER 

nate's  great  receptions.  "  They  say  he  goes  everywhere, 
and  that  Mr.  Grayson  has  adopted  him  and  is  going  to 
leave  him  all  his  money,"  to  which  Breen  had  grunted 
back  that  Jack  was  welcome  to  the  Portmans  and  the 
Portmans  to  Jack,  and  that  if  old  Grayson  had  any 
money,  which  he  very  much  doubted,  he'd  better  hoist 
it  overboard  than  give  it  to  that  rattlebrain.  Mrs. 
Breen  heaved  a  deep  sigh.  Neither  she  nor  Breen  had 
been  invited  to  the  Portmans7,  nor  had  Corinne  (the 
Scribe  has  often  wondered  whether  the  second  scoop 
in  Mukton  was  the  cause) — and  yet  Ruth  MacFarlane, 
and  Jack  and  Miss  Felicia  Grayson,  and  a  lot  more  out- 
of-town  people — so  that  insufferable  Mrs.  Bennett  had 
told  her — :had  come  long  distances  to  be  present,  the  in- 
sufferable adding  significantly  that  "Miss  MacFarlane 
looked  too  lovely  and  was  by  all  odds  the  prettiest  girl 
in  the  room,  and  as  for  young  Breen,  really  she  could 
have  fallen  in  love  with  him  herself!" 

Jack  tucked  his  uncle's  letter  in  his  pocket,  skipped 
over  to  read  it  to  Ruth  and  MacFarlane,  in  explanation 
of  his  enforced  absence  for  the  day,  and  kept  on  his 
way  to  the  station.  The  missive  referred  to  the  Mor- 
fordsburg  contract,  of  course,  and  was  evidently  an 
attempt  to  gain  information  regarding  the  proposed 
work,  Arthur  Breen  &  Co.  being  the  financial  agents 
of  many  similar  properties. 

"I  will  take  care  of  him,  sir,"  Jack  had  said  as  he 
left  his  Chief.  "My  uncle,  no  doubt,  means  all  right, 
and  it  is  just  as  well  to  hear  what  he  says — besides  he 
has  been  good  enough  to  write  to  me,  and  of  course  I 

329 


PETER 

must  go,  but  I  shall  not  commit  myself  one  way  or  the 
other — "  and  with  a  whispered  word  in  Ruth's  ear,  a 
kiss  and  a  laugh,  he  left  the  house. 

As  he  turned  down  the  short  street  leading  to  the 
station,  he  caught  sight  of  Garry  forging  ahead  on  his 
way  to  the  train.  That  rising  young  architect,  chairman 
of  the  Building  Committee  of  the  Council,  trustee  of 
church  funds,  politician  and  all-round  man  of  the 
world — most  of  which  he  carried  in  a  sling — seemed  in 
a  particularly  happy  frame  of  mind  this  morning  judg- 
ing from  the  buoyancy  with  which  he  stepped.  This 
had  communicated  itself  to  the  gayety  of  his  attire,  for 
he  was  dressed  in  a  light-gray  check  suit,  and  wore  a 
straw  hat  (the  first  to  see  the  light  of  summer)  with 
a  green  ribbon  about  the  crown, — together  with  a  white 
waistcoat  and  white  spats,  the  whole  enriched  by  a  red 
rose  bud  which  Corinne  had  with  her  own  hands  pinned 
in  his  buttonhole. 

"Why,  hello!  Jack,  old  man!  just  the  very  fellow 
I'm  looking  for,"  cried  the  joyous  traveller.  "You  go- 
ing to  New  York  ? — So  am  I, — go  every  day  now, — got 
something  on  ice, — the  biggest  thing  I've  ever  struck. 
I'll  show  that  uncle  of  yours  that  two  can  play  at  his 
game.  He  hasn't  lifted  his  hand  to  help  us,  and  I  don't 
want  him  to, — Cory  and  I  can  get  along;  but  you'd 
think  he'd  come  out  and  see  us  once  in  a  while,  wouldn't 
you,  or  ask  after  the  baby;  Mrs.  Breen  comes,  but  not 
Breen.  We  live  in  the  country  and  have  tar  on  our 
heels,  he  thinks.  Here, — sit  by  the  window!  Now  let's 
talk  of  something  else.  How's  Miss  Ruth  and  the  gov- 

330 


PETER 

ernor?  He's  a  daisy; — best  engineer  anywhere  round 
here.  Yes,  Cory's  all  right.  Baby  keeps  her  awake  half 
the  night;  I've  moved  out  and  camp  upstairs;  can't 
stand  it.  Oh,  by  the  way,  I  see  you  are  about  finishing 
up  on  the  railroad  work.  I'll  have  something  to  say 
to  you  next  week  on  the  damage  question.  Got  all  the 
reports  in  last  night.  I  tell  you,  my  old  chief,  Mr. 
Morris,  is  a  corker!  What  he  doesn't  know  about  ma- 
sonry isn't  worth  picking  up; — can't  fool  him!  That's 
what's  the  matter  with  half  of  our  younger  men;  they 
sharpen  lead-pencils,  mix  ink,  and  think  they  are  draw- 
ing; or  they  walk  down  a  stone  wall  and  don't  know 
any  more  what's  behind  it  and  what  holds  it  up  than 
a  child.  Mr.  Morris  can  not  only  design  a  wall,  but  he 
can  teach  some  first-class  mechanics  how  to  lay  it." 

Jack  looked  out  the  window  and  watched  the  fences 
fly  past.  For  the  moment  he  made  no  reply  to  Garry's 
long  harangue — especially  the  part  referring  to  the  re- 
port. Anxious  as  he  was  to  learn  the  result  of  the 
award,  he  did  not  want  the  facts  from  the  chairman  of 
the  committee  in  advance  of  the  confirmation  by  the 
Council. 

"What  is  it  you  have  on  ice,  Garry?"  he  asked  at 
last  with  a  laugh,  yielding  to  an  overpowering  convic- 
tion that  he  must  change  the  subject — "a  new  Corn 
Exchange  ?  Nobody  can  beat  you  in  corn  exchanges." 

"Not  by  a  long  shot,  Jack, — got  something  better; 
I  am  five  thousand  ahead  now,  and  it's  all  velvet." 

"Gold-mine,  Garry?"  queried  Jack,  turning  his 
head.  "Another  Mukton  Lode?  Don't  forget  poor 

331 


PETER 

Charlie  Gilbert;  he's  been  clerking  it  ever  since,  I 
hear." 

"No;  a  big  warehouse  company;  I'll  get  the  build- 
ings later  on.  That  Mukton  Lode  deal  was  a  clear 
skin  game,  Jack,  if  it  is  your  uncle,  and  A.  B.  &  Co.  got 
paid  up  for  it — downtown  and  uptown.  You  ought 
to  hear  the  boys  at  the  Magnolia  talk  about  it.  My 
scheme  is  not  that  kind;  I'm  on  the  ground  floor;  got 
some  of  the  promoter's  stock.  When  you  are  through 
with  your  railroad  contract  and  get  your  money,  let  me 
know.  I  can  show  you  a  thing  or  two; — open  your 
eyes!  No  Wall  Street  racket,  remember, — just  a  plain 
business  deal." 

"There  won't  be  much  money  left  over,  Garry,  from 
the  'fill'  and  tunnel  work,  if  we  keep  on.  We  ought 
to  have  a  cyclone  next  to  finish  up  with;  we've  had 
about  everything  else." 

"You're  all  through,  Jack,"  replied  Garry  with  em- 
phasis. 

"I'll  believe  that  when  I  see  it,"  said  Jack  with  a 
smile. 

"I  tell  you,  Jack,  you  are  all  through.  Do  you  under- 
stand? Don't  ask  me  any  questions  and  I  won't  tell 
you  any  lies.  The  first  thing  that  strikes  you  will  be  a 
check,  and  don't  you  forget  it!" 

Jack's  heart  gave  a  bound.  The  information  had 
come  as  a  surprise  and  without  his  aid,  and  yet  it  was 
none  the  less  welcome.  The  dreaded  anxiety  was  over; 
he  knew  now  what  the  verdict  of  the  Council  would  be. 
He  had  been  right  from  the  first  in  this  matter,  and 

332 


PETER 

Garry  had  not  failed  despite  the  strong  political  pressure 
which  must  have  been  brought  against  him.  The  new 
work  now  would  go  on  and  he  and  Ruth  could  go  to 
Morfordsburg  together!  He  could  already  see  her 
trim,  lovely  figure  in  silhouette  against  the  morning 
light,  her  eyes  dancing,  her  face  aglow  in  the  crisp  air 
of  the  hills. 

Garry  continued  to  talk  on  as  they  sped  into  the  city, 
elaborating  the  details  of  the  warehouse  venture  in 
which  he  had  invested  his  present  and  some  of  his 
future  commissions,  but  his  words  fell  on  stony  ground. 
The  expected  check  was  the  only  thing  that  filled  Jack's 
thoughts.  There  was  no  doubt  in  his  mind  now  that 
the  decision  would  be  in  MacFarlane's  favor,  and  that 
the  sum,  whether  large  or  small,  would  be  paid  without 
delay, — Garry  being  treasurer  and  a  large  amount  of 
money  being  still  due  McGowan  on  the  embankment 
and  boulevard.  It  would  be  joyous  news  to  Ruth,  he 
said  to  himself,  with  a  thrill  surging  through  his  heart. 

Jack  left  Garry  on  the  Jersey  side  and  crossed  alone. 
The  boy  loved  the  salt  air  in  his  face  and  the  jewelled 
lights  flashed  from  the  ever-restless  sea.  He  loved,  too, 
the  dash  and  vim  of  it  all.  Forcing  his  way  through  the 
crowds  of  passengers  to  the  forward  part  of  the  boat, 
he  stood  where  he  could  get  the  full  sweep  of  the  won- 
derful panorama: 

The  jagged  purple  line  of  the  vast  city  stretching  as 
far  as  the  eye  could  reach;  with  its  flat-top,  square- 
sided,  boxlike  buildings,  with  here  and  there  a  structure 
taller  than  the  others;  the  flash  of  light  from  Trinity's 

333 


PETER 

spire,  its  cross  aflame;  the  awkward,  crab-like  move- 
ments of  innumerable  ferry-boats,  their  gaping  alligator 
mouths  filled  with  human  flies;  the  impudent,  nervous 
little  tugs,  spitting  steam  in  every  passing  face;  the 
long  strings  of  sausage-linked  canalers  kept  together  by 
grunting,  slow-moving  tows;  the  great  floating  track- 
yards  bearing  ponderous  cars — eight  days  from  the 
Pacific  without  break  of  bulk;  the  skinny,  far-reaching 
fingers  of  innumerable  docks  clutching  prey  of  barge, 
steamer,  and  ship;  the  stately  ocean-liner  moving 
to  sea,  scattering  water-bugs  of  boats,  scows  and 
barges  as  it  glided  on  its  way: — all  this  stirred  his  im- 
agination and  filled  him  with  a  strange  resolve.  He, 
too,  would  win  a  place  among  the  masses — Ruth's  hand 
fast  in  his. 


334 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

When  Jack,  in  reply  to  Breen's  note,  stepped  into 
his  uncle's  office,  no  one  would  have  recognized  in  the 
quick,  alert,  bronze-faced  young  fellow  the  retiring, 
almost  timid,  boy  who  once  peered  out  of  the  port-hole 
of  the  cashier's  desk.  Nor  did  Jack's  eyes  fall  on  any 
human  being  he  had  ever  seen  before.  New  occu- 
pants filled  the  chairs  about  the  ticker.  A  few  lucky 
ones — very  few — had  pulled  out  and  stayed  out,  and 
could  now  be  found  at  their  country  seats  in  various 
parts  of  the  State,  or  on  the  Riviera,  or  in  Egypt;  but 
by  far  the  larger  part  had  crawled  out  of  the  fight  to 
nurse  their  wounds  within  the  privacy  of  their  own 
homes  where  the  outward  show  had  to  be  kept  up  no 
matter  how  stringent  the  inside  economies,  or  how 
severe  the  privations.  Others,  less  fortunate,  had  dis- 
appeared altogether  from  their  accustomed  haunts 
and  were  to  be  found  filling  minor  positions  in  some 
far  Western  frontier  town  or  camp,  or  menial  berths 
on  a  railroad,  while  at  least  one  victim,  too  cowardly 
to  leave  the  field,  had  haunted  the  lunch  counters, 
hotel  lobbies,  and  race-tracks  for  months,  preying  on 
friends  and  acquaintances  alike  until  dire  poverty 
forced  him  into  crime,  and  a  stone  cell  and  a  steel  grille 
had  ended  the  struggle. 

335 


PETER 

Failing  to  find  any  face  he  recognized,  Jack  ap- 
proached a  group  around  the  ticker,  and  inquired  for 
the  head  of  the  firm.  The  answer  came  from  a  red- 
cheeked,  clean-shaven,  bullet-headed,  immaculately 
upholstered  gentleman — (silk  scarf,  diamond  horse-shoe 
stick-pin,  high  collar,  cut-away  coat,  speckled-trout 
waistcoat — everything  perfect) — who  stood,  paring  his 
nails  in  front  of  the  plate-glass  window  overlook- 
ing the  street,  and  who  conveyed  news  of  the  elder 
Breen's  whereabouts  by  a  bob  of  his  head  and  a  jerk 
of  his  fat  forefinger  in  the  direction  of  the  familiar 
glass  door. 

Breen  sat  at  his  desk  when  Jack  entered,  but  it  was 
only  when  he  spoke  that  his  uncle  looked  up; — so  many 
men  swung  back  that  door  with  favors  to  ask,  that 
spontaneous  affability  was  often  bad  policy. 

"I  received  your  letter,  Uncle  Arthur,"  Jack  began. 

Breen  raised  his  eyes,  and  a  deep  color  suffused  his 
face.  In  his  heart  he  had  a  sneaking  admiration  for  the 
boy.  He  liked  his  pluck.  Strange,  too,  he  liked  him 
the  better  for  having  left  him  and  striking  out  for  him- 
self, and  stranger  still,  he  was  a  little  ashamed  for  hav- 
ing brought  about  the  revolt. 

"Why,  Jack!"  He  was  on  his  feet  now,  his  hand 
extended,  something  of  his  old-time  cordiality  in  his 
manner.  "  You  got  my  letter,  did  you  ?  Well,  I  wanted 
to  talk  to  you  about  that  ore  property.  You  own  it  still, 
don't  you  ? "  The  habit  of  his  life  of  going  straight  at 
the  business  in  hand,  precluded  every  other  topic. 
Then  again  he  wanted  a  chance  to  look  the  boy  over 

336 


PETER 

under  fire, — "size  him  up,"  in  his  own  vocabulary. 
He  might  need  his  help  later  on. 

"Oh,  we  don't  own  a  foot  of  it, — don't  want  to.  If 
Mr.  MacFarlane  decides  to — 

"I'm  not  talking  about  MacFarlane's  job;  I'm 
talking  about  your  own  property, — the  Cumberland 
ore  property, — the  one  your  father  left  you.  You 
haven't  sold  it,  have  you?"  This  came  in  an  anxious 
tone. 

"No,"  answered  Jack  simply,  wondering  what  his 
father's  legacy  had  to  do  with  his  Chief's  proposed  work. 

"  Have  you  paid  the  taxes  ?"  Arthur's  eyes  were  now 
boring  into  his. 

"Yes,  every  year;  they  were  not  much.  Why  do 
you  ask?" 

"  I'll  tell  you  that  later  on,"  answered  his  uncle  with 
a  more  satisfied  air.  "You  were  up  there  with  Mac- 
Farlane, weren't  you  ? — when  he  went  to  look  over  the 
ground  of  the  Maryland  Mining  Company  where  he  is 
to  cut  the  horizontal  shaft?"  Jack  nodded.  "So  I 
heard.  Well,  it  may  interest  you  to  learn  that  some  of 
our  Mukton  people  own  the  property.  It  was  I  who 
sent  MacFarlane  up,  really,  although  he  may  not 
know  it." 

"That  was  very  kind  of  you,  sir,"  rejoined  Jack, 
without  a  trace  of  either  gratitude  or  surprise. 

"Well,  I'm  glad  you  think  so.  Some  of  our  directors 
also  own  a  block  of  that  new  road  MacFarlane  is  fin- 
ishing. They  wouldn't  hire  anybody  else  after  they 
had  gone  up  to  Corklesville  and  had  seen  how  he  did 

337 


PETER 

his  work,  so  I  had  the  secretary  of  the  company  write 
MacFarlane,  and  that's  how  it  came  about." 

Jack  nodded  and  waited;  his  uncle's  drift  was  not 
yet  apparent. 

"Well,  what  I  wanted  to  see  you  about,  Jack,  is 
this:"  here  he  settled  his  fat  back  into  the  chair. 
"All  the  ore  in  that  section  of  the  county, — so  our  ex- 
perts say,  dips  to  the  east.  They've  located  the  vein 
and  they  think  a  horizontal  shaft  and  gravity  will  get 
the  stuff  to  tide  water  much  cheaper  than  a  vertical 
shaft  and  hoist.  Now  if  the  ore  should  peter  out — and 
the  devil  himself  can't  tell  always  about  that — we've 
got  to  get  some  ore  somewhere  round  there  to  brace  up 
and  make  good  our  prospectus,  even  if  it  does  cost  a 
little  more,  and  that's  where  your  Cumberland  prop- 
erty might  come  in, — see  ?  One  of  our  lawyers  looked 
over  a  record  of  your  deed  in  the  town  hall  of  Mul- 
ford—  "  here  he  bent  forward  and  consulted  a  paper  on 
his  desk —  "  No, — that's  not  it, — Morfordsburg, — yes, 
that's  it, — Morfordsburg, — looked  up  the  deed,  I  say, 
Jack,  and  from  what  he  says  I  don't  believe  your  prop- 
erty is  more  than  a  quarter  of  a  mile,  as  the  crow  flies, 
from  where  they  want  MacFarlane  to  begin  cutting. 
If  the  lawyer's  right  there  may  be  a  few  dollars  in  it  for 
you — not  much,  but  something;  and  if  there  is, — of 
course,  I  don't  want  to  commit  myself,  and  I  don't 
want  to  encourage  you  too  much — but  if  he's  right  I 
should  advise  your  bringing  me  what  papers  you've  got 
and  have  our  attorney  look  them  over,  and  if  every- 
thing's O.K.  in  the  title,  your  property  might  be  turned 

338 


PETER 

over  to  the  new  company  and  form  part  of  the  deal. 
You  can  understand,  of  course,  that  we  don't  want  any 
other  deposits  in  that  section  but  our  own." 

Breen's  meaning  was  clear  now.  So  was  the  purpose 
of  the  letter. 

Jack  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  an  expression  first  of 
triumph  and  then  of  disgust  crossing  his  face.  That  his 
uncle  should  actually  want  him  back  in  his  business  in 
any  capacity  was  as  complimentary  as  it  was  unex- 
pected. That  the  basis  of  the  copartnership — and  it 
was  this  that  brought  the  curl  to  his  lip— was  such  that 
neither  a  quarter  of  a  mile  nor  two  miles  would  stand 
in  the  way  of  a  connecting  vein  of  ore  on  paper,  was  to 
be  expected  by  any  one  at  all  familiar  with  his  uncle's 
methods. 

"Thank  you,  Uncle  Arthur,"  he  answered  simply, 
"but  there's  nothing  decided  yet  about  the  Morfords- 
burg  work.  I  heard  a  bit  of  news  coming  down  on  the 
train  this  morning  that  may  cause  Mr.  MacFarlane  to 
look  upon  the  proposed  work  more  favorably,  but  that 
is  for  him  to  say.  As  to  my  own  property,  when  I  am 
there  again,  if  I  do  go, — I  will  look  over  the  ground 
myself  and  have  Mr.  MacFarlane  go  with  me  and  then 
I  can  decide." 

Arthur  knitted  his  brows.  It  was  not  the  answer  he 
had  expected.  In  fact,  he  was  very  much  astonished 
both  at  the  reply  and  the  way  in  which  it  was  given. 
He  began  to  be  sorry  he  had  raised  the  question  at  all. 
He  would  gladly  have  helped  Jack  in  getting  a  good 
price  for  his  property,  provided  it  did  not  interfere  with 

339 


PETER 

his  own  plans,  but  to  educate  him  up  to  the  position  of 
an  obstructionist,  was  quite  another  matter. 

"Well,  think  it  over/'  he  replied  in  a  tone  that  was 
meant  to  show  his  entire  indifference  to  the  whole 
affair, — "and  some  time  when  you  are  in  town  drop  in 
again.  And  now  tell  me  about  Ruth,  as  we  must  call 
her,  I  suppose.  Your  aunt  just  missed  her  at  the  Cos- 
groves'  the  other  day."  Then  came  a  short  disquisition 
on  Garry  and  Corinne  and  their  life  at  Elm  Crest, 
followed  by  an  embarrassing  pause,  during  which  the 
head  of  the  house  of  Breen  lowered  the  flow  line  on  a 
black  bottle  which  he  took  from  a  closet  behind  his 
desk, — "his  digestion  being  a  little  out  that  morning," 
he  explained.  And  so  with  renewed  thanks  for  the  inter- 
est he  had  taken  in  his  behalf,  and  with  his  whole  mind 
now  concentrated  on  Peter  and  the  unspeakable  hap- 
piness in  store  for  him  when  he  poured  into  the  old 
gentleman's  willing  and  astonished  ears  the  details  of 
the  interview,  Mr.  John  Breen,  Henry  MacFarlane's 
Chief  Assistant  in  Charge  of  Outside  Work,  bowed 
himself  out. 

He  had  not  long  to  wait. 

Indeed,  that  delightful  old  gentleman  had  but  a  short 
time  before  called  to  a  second  old  gentleman,  a  more 
or  less  delightful  fossil  in  black  wig  and  spectacles,  to 
take  his  place  at  the  teller's  window,  and  the  first  de- 
lightful old  gentleman  was  at  the  precise  moment  stand- 
ing on  the  top  step  of  the  Exeter,  overlooking  the  street, 
where  he  had  caught  sight  of  Jack  wending  his  way 
toward  him. 

340 


PETER 

"Jack!  Jack!'3  Peter  cried,  waving  his  hand  at  the 
boy. 

"Oh!  that's  you,  Uncle  Peter,  is  it?    Shall  I ?" 

"  No,  Jack,  stay  where  you  are  until  I  come  to  you." 

"And  where  are  you  going  now?"  burst  out  Jack, 
overjoyed  at  reaching  his  side. 

"To  luncheon,  my  dear  boy!  We'll  go  to  Favre*'s, 
and  have  a  stuffed  pepper  and  a  plate  of  spaghetti  an 
inch  deep,  after  my  own  receipt.  Botti  cooks  it  deli- 
ciously; — and  a  bottle  of  red  wine,  my  boy, — wine, — 
not  logwood  and  vinegar.  No  standing  up  at  a  trough, 
or  sitting  on  a  high  stool,  or  wandering  about  with  a 
sandwich  between  your  fingers, — ruining  your  table 
manners  and  your  digestion.  And  now  tell  me  about 
dear  Ruth,  and  what  she  says  about  coming  down  to 
dinner  next  week?" 

It  was  wonderful  how  young  he  looked,  and  how 
happy  he  was,  and  how  spry  his  step,  as  the  two  turned 
into  William  Street  and  so  on  to  the  cheap  little  French 
restaurant  with  its  sanded  floor,  little  tables  for  two  and 
four,  with  their  tiny  pots  of  mustard  and  flagons  of  oil 
and  red  vinegar, — this  last,  the  "left-overs"  of  count- 
less bottles  of  Bordeaux, — to  say  nothing  of  the  great 
piles  of  French  bread  weighing  down  a  shelf  beside  the 
proprietor's  desk,  racked  up  like  cordwood,  and  all  of 
the  same  color,  length,  and  thickness. 

Every  foot  of  the  way  through  the  room  toward  his 
own  table— his  for  years,  and  which  was  placed  in  the 
far  corner  overlooking  the  doleful  little  garden  with 
its  half-starved  vine  and  hanging  baskets — Peter  had 

341 


PETER 

been  obliged  to  speak  to  everybody  he  passed  (some 
of  the  younger  men  rose  to  their  feet  to  shake  his 
hand) — until  he  reached  the  proprietor  and  gave  his 
order. 

Auguste,  plump  and  oily,  his  napkin  over  his  arm, 
drew  out  his  chair  (it  was  always  tipped  back  in  reserve 
until  he  arrived),  laid  another  plate  and  accessories  for 
his  guest,  and  then  bent  his  head  in  attention  until  Peter 
indicated  the  particular  brand  of  Bordeaux — the  color 
of  the  wax  sealing  its  top  was  the  only  label — with 
which  he  proposed  to  entertain  his  friend. 

All  this  time  Jack  had  been  on  the  point  of  bursting. 
Once  he  had  slipped  his  hand  into  his  pocket  for 
Breen's  letter,  in  the  belief  that  the  best  way  to  get  the 
most  enjoyment  out  of  the  incident  of  his  visit  and  the 
result, — for  it  was  still  a  joke  to  Jack, — would  be  to 
lay  the  half  sheet  on  Peter's  plate  and  watch  the  old 
fellow's  face  as  he  read  it.  Then  he  decided  to  lead 
gradually  up  to  it,  concealing  the  best  part  of  the  story 
— the  prospectus  and  how  it  was  to  be  braced — until 
the  last. 

But  the  boy  could  not  wait;  so,  after  he  had  told 
Peter  about  Ruth, — and  that  took  ten  minutes,  try  as 
hard  as  he  could  to  shorten  the  telling, — during  which 
the  stuffed  peppers  were  in  evidence, — and  after  Peter 
had  replied  with  certain  messages  to  Ruth, — during 
which  the  spaghetti  was  served  sizzling  hot,  with  en- 
trancing frazzlings  of  brown  cheese  clinging  to  the 
edges  of  the  tin  plate — the  Chief  Assistant  squared 
his  elbows  and  plunged  head-foremost  into  the  subject. 

342 


PETER 

"And  now,  I  have  got  a  surprise  for  you,  Uncle 
Peter,"  cried  Jack,  smothering  his  eagerness  as  best  he 
could. 

The  old  fellow  held  up  his  hand,  reached  for  the 
shabby,  dust-begrimed  bottle,  that  had  been  sound 
asleep  under  the  sidewalk  for  years;  filled  Jack's  glass, 
then  his  own;  settled  himself  in  his  chair  and  said  with 
a  dry  smile: 

"If  it's  something  startling,  Jack,  wait  until  we 
drink  this,"  and  he  lifted  the  slender  rim  to  his  lips. 
"  If  it's  something  delightful,  you  can  spring  it  now." 

"It  is  both,"  answered  Jack.  "Listen  and  doubt 
your  ears.  I  had  a  letter  from  Uncle  Arthur  this  morn- 
ing asking  me  to  come  and  see  him  about  my  Cumber- 
land ore  property,  and  I  have  just  spent  an  hour  with 
him." 

Peter  put  down  his  glass: 

"You  had  a  letter  from  Arthur  Breen — about — what 
do  you  mean,  Jack." 

"  Just  what  I  say." 

Peter  moved  close  to  the  table,  and  looked  at  the  boy 
in  wonderment. 

"Well,  what  did  he  want?"  He  was  all  attention 
now.  Arthur  Breen  sending  for  Jack! — and  after  all 
that  had  happened!  Well — well! 

"Wants  me  to  put  the  Cumberland  ore  property 
father  left  me  into  one  of  his  companies." 

"That  fox!"  The  explosion  cleared  the  atmosphere 
for  an  instant. 

"That  fox!"  answered  Jack,  in  a  confirmatory  tone; 
343 


PETER 

and  then  followed  an  account  of  the  interview,  the  boy 
chuckling  at  the  end  of  every  sentence  in  his  delight 
over  the  situation. 

"And  what  are  you  going  to  do?"  asked  Peter  in  an 
undecided  tone.  He  had  heard  nothing  so  comical  as 
this  for  years. 

"  Going  to  do  nothing, — that  is,  nothing  with  Uncle 
Arthur.  In  the  first  place,  the  property  is  worthless, 
unless  half  a  million  of  money  is  spent  upon  it." 

"Or  is  said  to  have  been  spent  upon  it,"  rejoined 
Peter  with  a  smile,  remembering  the  Breen  methods. 

"Exactly  so; — :and  in  the  second  place,  I  would  rather 
tear  up  the  deed  than  have  it  added  to  Uncle  Arthur's 
stock  of  balloons." 

Peter  drummed  on  the  table-cloth  and  looked  out  of 
the  window.  The  boy  was  right  in  principle,  but  then 
the  property  might  not  be  a  balloon  at  all;  might  in  fact 
be  worth  a  great  deal  more  than  the  boy  dreamed  of. 
That  Arthur  Breen  had  gone  out  of  his  way  to  send 
for  Jack — knowing,  as  Peter  did,  how  systematically 
both  he  and  his  wife  had  abused  and  ridiculed  him 
whenever  his  name  was  mentioned — was  positive 
evidence  to  Peter's  mind  not  only  that  the  property 
had  a  value  of  some  kind  but  that  the  discovery  was  of 
recent  origin. 

"Would  you  know  yourself,  Jack,  what  the  property 
was  worth, — that  is,  do  you  feel  yourself  competent  to 
pass  upon  its  value  ? "  asked  Peter,  lifting  his  glass  to 
his  lips.  He  was  getting  back  to  his  normal  condition 
now. 

344 


PETER 

"Yes,  to  a  certain  extent,  and  if  I  fail,  Mr.  MacFar- 
lane  will  help  me  out.  He  was  superintendent  of  the 
Rockford  Mines  for  five  years.  He  received  his  early 
training  there, — but  there  is  no  use  talking  about  it, 
Uncle  Peter.  I  only  told  you  to  let  "you  see  how  the 
same  old  thing  is  going  on  day  after  day  at  Uncle  Ar- 
thur's. If  it  isn't  Mukton,  it's  Ginsing,  or  Black  Royal, 
or  some  other  gas  bag." 

"  What  did  you  tell  him?" 

"Nothing, — not  in  all  the  hour  I  talked  with  him. 
He  did  the  talking;  I  did  the  listening." 

"I  hope  you  were  courteous  to  him,  my  boy?" 

"I  was, — particularly  so." 

"He  wants  your  property,  does  he?"  ruminated 
Peter,  rolling  a  crumb  of  bread  between  his  thumb  and 
forefinger.  "I  wonder  what's  up?  He  has  made  some 
bad  breaks  lately  and  there  were  ugly  rumors  about 
the  house  for  a  time.  He  has  withdrawn  his  account 
from  the  Exeter  and  so  I've  lost  sight  of  all  of  his  trans- 
actions." Here  a  new  idea  seemed  to  strike  him: 
"Did  he  seem  very  anxious  about  getting  hold  of  the 
land?" 

A  queer  smile  played  about  Jack's  lips : 

"  He  seemed  not  to  be,  but  he  was. " 

"You're  sure?" 

"Very  sure;  and  so  would  you  be  if  you  knew  him 
as  well  as  I  do.  I  have  heard  him  talk  that  way  to 
dozens  of  men  and  then  brag  how  he'd  'covered  his 
tracks,'  as  he  used  to  call  it." 

"Then,  Jack,"  exclaimed  Peter  in  a  decided  tone, 
345 


PETER 

"there  is  something  in  it.  What  it  is  you  will  find  out 
before  many  weeks,  but  something.  I  will  wager  you 
he  has  not  only  had  your  title  searched  but  has  had  test 
holes  driven  all  over  your  land.  These  fellows  stop  at 
nothing.  Let  him  alone  for  a  while  and  keep  him 
guessing.  When  he  writes  to  you  again  to  come  and 
see  him,  answer  that  you  are  too  busy,  and  if  he  adds  a 
word  about  the  ore  beds  tell  him  you  have  withdrawn 
them  from  the  market.  In  the  meantime  I  will  have 
a  talk  with  one  of  our  directors  who  has  an  interest,  so 
he  told  me,  in  a  new  steel  company  up  in  the  Cumber- 
land Mountains,  somewhere  near  your  property,  I  be- 
lieve. He  may  know  something  of  what's  going  on,  if 
anything  is  going  on." 

Jack's  eyes  blazed.  Something  going  on !  Sup- 
pose that  after  all  he  and  Ruth  would  not  have  to  wait. 
Peter  read  his  thoughts  and  laid  his  hand  on  Jack's 
wrist: 

"Keep  your  toes  on  the  earth,  my  boy: — no  balloon 
ascensions  and  no  bubbles, — none  of  your  own  blowing. 
They  are  bad  things  to  have  burst  in  your  hands — four 
hands  now,  remember,  with  Ruth's.  If  there's  any 
money  in  your  Cumberland  ore  bank,  it  will  come  to 
light  without  your  help.  Keep  still  and  say  nothing, 
and  don't  you  sign  your  name  to  a  piece  of  paper  as  big 
as  a  postage  stamp  until  you  let  me  see  it." 

Here  Peter  looked  at  his  watch  and  rose  from  the 
table. 

"Time's  up,  my  boy.  I  never  allow  myself  but  an 
hour  at  luncheon,  and  I  am  due  at  the  bank  in  ten  min- 

346 


PETER 

utes.    Thank  you,  Auguste, — and  Auguste!  please  tell 
Botti  the  spaghetti  was  delicious.    Come,  Jack/' 

It  was  when  he  held  Ruth  in  his  arms  that  same  after- 
noon— behind  the  door,  really, — she  couldn't  wait  until 
they  reached  the  room, — that  Jack  whispered  in  her 
astonished  and  delighted  ears  the  good  news  of  the 
expected  check  from  Garry's  committee. 

"And  daddy  won't  lose  anything;  and  he  can  take 
the  new  work!"  she  cried  joyously.  "And  we  can  all 
go  up  to  the  mountains  together!  Oh,  Jack! — let  me 
run  and  tell  daddy!" 

"No,  my  darling, — not  a  word.  Garry  had  no  busi- 
ness to  tell  me  what  he  did;  and  it  might  leak  out  and 
get  him  into  trouble:—  No,  don't  say  a  word.  It  is 
only  a  few  days  off.  We  shall  all  know  next  week." 

He  had  led  her  to  the  sofa,  their  favorite  seat. 

"And  now  I  am  going  to  tell  you  something  that 
would  be  a  million  times  better  than  Garry's  check  if 
it  were  only  true, — but  it  isn't." 

"  Tell  me,  Jack, — quick ! "     Her  lips  were  close  to  his. 

"Uncle  Arthur  wants  to  buy  my  ore  lands." 

"Buy  your —  And  we  are  going  to  be — married 
right  away!  Oh,  you  darling  Jack!" 

"Wait, — wait,  my  precious,  until  I  tell  you!"  She 
did  not  wait,  and  he  did  not  want  her  to.  Only  when 
he  could  loosen  her  arms  from  his  neck  did  he  find  her 
ear  again,  then  he  poured  into  it  the  rest  of  the  story. 

"But,  oh,  Jack! — wouldn't  it  be  lovely  if  it  were  true, 
— and  just  think  of  all  the  things  we  could  do." 

347 


PETER 

"Yes,— but  it  isn't  true." 

"But  just  suppose  it  was,  Jack!  You  would  have  a 
horse  of  your  own  and  we'd  build  the  dearest  little 
home  and " 

"But  it  never  can  be  true,  blessed, — not  out  of  the 
Cumberland  property — "  protested  Jack. 

"But,  Jack!  Can't  we  suppose?  Why,  supposing  is 
the  best  fun  in  the  world.  I  used  to  suppose  all  sorts  of 
things  when  I  was  a  little  girl.  Some  of  them  came  true, 
and  some  of  them  didn't,  but  I  had  just  as  much  fun  as 
if  they  had  all  come  true." 

"Did  you  ever  suppose  me?"  asked  Jack.  He  knew 
she  never  had, — he  wasn't  worth  it; — but  what  differ- 
ence did  it  make  what  they  talked  about ! 

"Yes, — a  thousand  times.  I  always  knew,  my 
blessed,  that  there  was  somebody  like  you  in  the  world 
somewhere, — and  when  the  girls  would  break  out  and 
say  ugly  things  of  men, — all  men, — I  just  knew  they 
were  not  true  of  everybody.  I  knew  that  you  would 
come — and  that  I  should  always  look  for  you  until  I 
found  you!  And  now  tell  me!  Did  you  suppose  about 
me,  too,  you  darling  Jack?" 

"No, — never.  There  couldn't  be  any  supposing; — 
there  isn't  any  now.  It's  just  you  I  love,  Ruth, — you, — 
and  I  love  the  'you'  in  you —  That's  the  best  part  of 
you." 

And  so  they  talked  on,  she  close  in  his  arms,  their 
cheeks  together;  building  castles  of  rose  marble  and 
ivory,  laying  out  gardens  with  vistas  ending  in  summer 
sunsets;  dreaming  dreams  that  lovers  only  dream. 

348 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

The  check  "struck"  MacFarlane  just  as  the  chair- 
man had  said  it  would,  wiping  out  his  losses  by  the 
flood  with  something  ahead  for  his  next  undertaking. 

That  the  verdict  was  a  just  one  was  apparent  from 
the  reports  of  both  McGowan's  and  the  Railroad  Com- 
pany's experts.  These  showed  that  the  McGowan 
mortar  held  but  little  cement,  and  that  not  of  the  best; 
that  the  backing  of  the  masonry  was  composed  of  loose 
rubble  instead  of  split  stone,  and  that  the  collapse  of  his 
structure  was  not  caused  by  the  downpour,  but  by  the 
caving  in  of  culverts  and  spillways,  which  were  built  of 
materials  in  direct  violation  of  the  provisions  of  the  con- 
tract. Even  then  there  might  have  been  some  doubt  as 
to  the  outcome  but  for  Holker  Morris's  testimony.  He 
not  only  sent  in  his  report,  but  appeared  himself,  he  told 
the  Council,  so  as  to  answer  any  questions  Mr.  McGow- 
an or  his  friends  might  ask.  He  had  done  this,  as  he 
said  openly  at  the  meeting,  to  aid  his  personal  friend, 
Mr.  MacFarlane,  and  also  that  he  might  raise  his  voice 
against  the  slipshod  work  that  was  being  done  by  men 
who  either  did  not  know  their  business  or  purposely 
evaded  their  responsibilities.  "This  construction  of 
McGowan's,"  he  continued,  "is  especially  to  be  con- 

349 


PETER 

demned,  as  there  is  not  the  slightest  doubt  that  the 
contractor  has  intentionally  slighted  his  work — a  neg- 
lect which,  but  for  the  thorough  manner  in  which 
MacFarlane  had  constructed  the  lower  culvert,  might 
have  resulted  in  the  loss  of  many  lives. 

McGowan  snarled  and  sputtered,  denouncing  Garry 
and  his  "swallow-tails"  in  the  bar  rooms  and  at  the 
board  meetings,  but  the  decision  was  unanimous,  two 
of  his  friends  concurring,  fearing,  as  they  explained 
afterward,  that  the  "New  York  crowd"  might  claim 
even  a  larger  sum  in  a  suit  for  damages. 

The  meeting  over,  Morris  and  Jack  dined  with 
MacFarlane  and  again  the  distinguished  architect  won 
Ruth's  heart  by  the  charm  of  his  personality,  she  telling 
Jack  the  next  day  that  he  was  the  only  old  man — 
fifty  was  old  for  Ruth — she  had  ever  seen  with  whom 
she  could  have  fallen  in  love,  and  that  she  was  not  sure 
after  all  but  that  Jack  was  too  young  for  her,  at  which 
there  was  a  great  scrimmage  and  a  blind-man's-buff 
chase  around  the  table,  up  the  front  stairs  and  into  the 
corner  by  the  window,  where  she  was  finally  caught, 
smothered  in  kisses  and  made  to  correct  her  arithmetic. 

This  ghost  of  damages  having  been  laid — it  was 
buried  the  week  after  Jack  had  called  on  his  uncle — 
the  Chief,  the  First  Assistant,  and  Bangs,  the  head  fore- 
man, disappeared  from  Corklesville  and  reappeared 
at  Morfordsburg. 

The  Chief  came  to  select  a  site  for  the  entrance  of  the 
shaft;  the  First  Assistant  came  to  compare  certain 
maps  and  documents,  which  he  had  taken  from  the 

350 


PETER 

trunk  he  had  brought  with  him  from  his  Maryland 
home,  with  the  archives  resting  in  the  queer  old  court- 
house; while  Foreman  Bangs  was  to  help  with  the  level 
and  target,  should  a  survey  be  found  necessary. 

The  faded-out  old  town  clerk  looked  Jack  all  over 
when  he  asked  to  see  the  duplicate  of  a  certain  deed, 
remarking,  as  he  led  the  way  to  the  Hall  of  Records, — 
it  was  under  a  table  in  the  back  room, — "Reckon 
there's  somethin'  goin'  on  jedgin'  from  the  way  you 
New  Yorkers  is  lookin'  into  ore  lands  up  here.  There 
come  a  lawyer  only  last  month  from  a  man  named 
Breen,  huntin'  up  this  same  property." 

The  comparisons  over  and  found  to  be  correct, 
"starting  from  a  certain  stone  marked  'B'  one  hun- 
dred and  eighty-seven  feet  East  by  South,"  etc.,  etc., 
the  whole  party,  including  a  small  boy  to  help  carry  the 
level  and  target  and  a  reliable  citizen  who  said  he  could 
find  the  property  blindfold — and  who  finally  collapsed 
with  a  " Goll  darn! — if  I  know  where  I'm  at!" — the  five 
jumped  into  a  mud-encrusted  vehicle  and  started  for  the 
site. 

Up  hill  and  down  hill,  across  one  stream  and  then 
another;  through  the  dense  timber  and  into  the  open 
again.  Here  their  work  began,  Jack  handling  the  level 
(his  Chief  had  taught  him),  Bangs  holding  the  target, 
MacFarlane  taking  a  squint  now  and  then  so  as  to  be 
sure, — and  then  the  final  result, — to  wit: — First,  that 
the  Maryland  Company's  property,  Arthur  Breen 
&  Co.,  agents,  lay  under  a  hill  some  two  miles  from 
Morfordsburg;  that  Jack's  lay  some  miles  to  the 

351 


PETER 

south  of  Breen's.  Second,  that  outcroppings  showed 
the  Maryland  Mining  Company's  ore  dipped,  as  the 
Senior  Breen  had  said,  to  the  east,  and  third,  that  sim- 
ilar outcroppings  showed  Jack's  dipped  to  the  west. 

And  so  the  airy  bubble  filled  with  his  own  and  Ruth's 
iridescent  hopes, — a  bubble  which  had  floated  before 
him  as  he  tramped  through  the  cool  woods,  and  out 
upon  the  hillside,  vanished  into  thin  air. 

For  with  Ruth's  arms  around  him,  her  lips  close  to 
his,  her  boundless  enthusiasm  filling  his  soul,  the  boy's 
emotions  had  for  the  time  overcome  his  judgment.  So 
much  so  that  all  the  way  up  in  the  train  he  had  been 
"supposing"  and  resupposing.  Even  the  reply  of  the 
town  clerk  had  set  his  heart  to  thumping;  his  uncle 
had  sent  some  one  then!  Then  came  the  thought, — 
Yes,  to  boom  one  of  his  misleading  prospectuses — 
and  for  a  time  the  pounding  had  ceased:  by  no  pos- 
sible combination  now,  either  honest  or  dishonest, 
could  the  two  properties  be  considered  one  and  the 
same  mine. 

Again  his  thoughts  went  back  to  Ruth.  He  knew 
how  keenly  she  would  be  disappointed.  She  had  made 
him  promise  to  telegraph  her  at  once  if  his  own  and 
her  father's  inspection  of  the  ore  lands  should  hold  out 
any  rose-colored  prospects  for  the  future.  This  he  had 
not  now  the  heart  to  do.  One  thing,  however,  he  must 
do,  and  at  once,  and  that  was  to  write  to  Peter,  or  see  him 
immediately  on  his  return.  There  was  no  use  now  of 
the  old  fellow  talking  the  matter  over  with  the  director ; 
there  was  nothing  to  talk  over,  except  a  bare  hill  three 

352 


PETER 

miles  from  anywhere,  covering  a  possible  deposit  of 
doubtful  richness  and  which,  whether  good  or  bad, 
would  cost  more  to  get  to  market  than  it  was  worth. 

They  were  on  the  extreme  edge  of  the  forest  when  the 
final  decision  was  reached,  MacFarlane  leaning  against 
a  rock,  the  level  and  tripod  tilted  against  his  arm, 
Jack  sitting  on  a  fallen  tree,  the  map  spread  out  on  his 
knees. 

For  some  minutes  Jack  sat  silent,  his  eyes  roaming 
over  the  landscape.  Below  him  stretched  an  undulating 
mantle  of  velvet,  laid  loosely  over  valley,  ravine  and 
hill,  embroidered  in  tints  of  corn-yellow,  purplings  of 
full-blossomed  clover  and  the  softer  greens  of  meadow 
and  swamp.  In  and  out,  now  straight,  now  in  curves 
and  bows,  was  threaded  a  ribbon  of  silver,  with  here 
and  there  a  connecting  mirror  in  which  flashed  the  sun. 
Bordering  its  furthermost  edge  a  chain  of  mountains 
lost  themselves  in  low,  rolling  clouds,  while  here  and 
there,  in  its  many  crumplings,  were  studded  jewels  of 
barn  stack  and  house,  their  facets  aflame  in  the  morn- 
ing light. 

Jack  absorbed  it  all,  its  beauty  rilling  his  soul,  the  sun- 
shine bathing  his  cheeks.  Soon  all  trace  of  his  disap- 
pointment vanished:  with  Ruth  here, — with  his  work 
to  occupy  him, — and  this  mighty,  all-inspiring,  all- 
intoxicating  sweep  of  loveliness  spread  out,  his  own  and 
Ruth's  every  hour  of  the  day  and  night,  what  did  ore 
beds  or  anything  else  matter  ? 

MacFarlane's  voice  woke  him  to  consciousness.  He 
had  called  to  him  before,  but  the  boy  had  not  heard. 

353 


PETER 

"  As  I  have  just  remarked,  Jack,"  MacFarlane  began 
again,  "there  is  nothing  but  an  earthquake  will  make 
your  property  of  any  use.  It  is  a  low-grade  ore,  I  should 
say,  and  tunnelling  and  shoring  would  eat  it  up.  Wipe  it 
off  the  books.  There  are  thousands  of  acres  of  this  kind 
of  land  lying  around  loose  from  here  to  the  Cumber- 
land Valley.  It  may  get  better  as  you  go  down — only 
an  assay  can  tell  about  that — but  I  don't  think  it  will. 
To  begin  sinking  shafts  might  mean  sinking  one  or  a 
dozen;  and  there's  nothing  so  expensive.  I  am  sorry, 
Jack,  but  wipe  it  out.  Some  bright  scoundrel  might 
sell  stock  on  it,  but  they'll  never  melt  any  of  it  up  into 
stove  plate." 

"All  right,  sir,"  Jack  said  at  last,  with  a  light  laugh. 
"It  is  the  same  old  piece  of  bread,  I  reckon,  and  it 
has  fallen  on  the  same  old  buttered  side.  Uncle  Peter 
told  me  to  beware  of  bubbles — said  they  were  hard  to 
carry  around.  This  one  has  burst  before  I  got  my 
hand  on  it.  All  right — let  her  go!  I  hope  Ruth  won't 
take  it  too  much  to  heart.  Here,  boy,  get  hold  of  this 
map  and  put  it  with  the  other  traps  in  the  wagon. 
And  now,  Mr.  MacFarlane,  what  comes  next?" 

Before  the  day  was  over  MacFarlane  had  perfected 
his  plans.  The  town  was  to  be  avoided  as  too  demor- 
alizing a  shelter  for  the  men,  and  barracks  were  to  be 
erected  in  which  to  house  them.  Locations  of  the 
principal  derricks  were  selected  and  staked,  as  well  as 
the  sites  for  the  entrance  to  the  shaft,  for  the  machine 
and  blacksmith's  shops  and  for  a  storage  shanty  for 
tools:  the  Maryland  Mining  Company's  work  would 

354 


PETER 

require  at  least  two  years  to  complete,  and  a  rational, 
well-studied  plan  of  procedure  was  imperative. 

"And  now,  Jack,  where  are  you  going  to  live, — in 
the  village?"  asked  his  Chief,  resting  the  level  and 
tripod  carefully  against  a  tree  trunk  and  seating  him- 
self beside  Jack  on  a  fallen  log. 

"Out  here,  if  you  don't  mind,  sir,  where  I  can  be  on 
top  of  the  work  all  the  time.  It's  but  a  short  ride  for 
Ruth  and  she  can  come  and  go  all  the  time.  I  am  going 
to  drop  some  of  these  trees;  get  two  or  three  choppers 
from  the  village  and  knock  up  a  log-house  like  the  one 
I  camped  in  when  I  was  a  boy." 

"Where  will  you  put  it?"  asked  MacFarlane  with  a 
smile,  as  he  turned  his  head  as  if  in  search  of  a  site. 
It  was  just  where  he  wanted  Jack  to  live,  but  he  would 
not  have  suggested  it. 

"Not  a  hundred  yards  from  where  we  sit,  sir — a  little 
back  of  those  two  big  oaks.  There's  a  spring  above 
on  the  hill  and  sloping  ground  for  drainage;  and  shade, 
and  a  great  sweep  of  country  in  front.  I've  been 
hungry  for  this  life  ever  since  I  left  home;  now  I  am 
going  to  have  it." 

"It  will  be  rather  lonely,  won't  it?"  The  engineer's 
eyes  softened  as  they  rested  on  the  young  fellow,  his 
face  flushed  with  the  enthusiasm  of  his  new  resolve. 
He  and  Ruth's  mother  had  lived  in  just  such  a  shanty, 
and  not  so  very  long  ago,  either,  it  seemed, — those  were 
the  happiest  years  of  his  life. 

"No!"  exclaimed  Jack.  "It's  only  a  step  to  the 
town;  I  can  walk  it  in  half  an  hour.  No,  it  won't  be 

355 


PETER 

lonely.  I  will  fix  up  a  room  for  Uncle  Peter  somewhere, 
so  he  can  be  comfortable, — he  would  love  to  come  here 
on  his  holidays;  and  Ruth  can  come  out  for  the  day, — 
she  will  be  crazy  about  it  when  I  tell  her.  No,  I  will 
get  along.  If  the  lightning  had  struck  my  ore  beds 
I  would  probably  have  painted  and  papered  some  musty 
back  room  in  the  village  and  lived  a  respectable  life. 
Now  I  am  going  to  turn  savage." 

The  next  day  the  contracts  were  signed:  work  to 
commence  in  three  months.  Henry  MacFarlane,  En- 
gineer-in-Chief,  John  Breen  in  charge  of  construction. 

It  was  on  that  same  sofa  in  the  far  corner  of  the  sit- 
ting-room that  Jack  told  Ruth, — gently,  one  word  at  a 
time, — making  the  best  of  it,  but  telling  her  the  exact 
truth. 

"And  then  we  are  not  going  to  have  any  of  the 
things  we  dreamed  about,  Jack,"  she  said  with  a  sigh. 

"I  am  afraid  not,  my  darling, — not  now,  unless  the 
lightning  strikes  us,  which  it  won't." 

She  looked  out  of  the  window  for  a  moment,  and  her 
eyes  filled  with  tears.  Then  she  thought  of  her  father, 
and  how  hard  he  had  worked,  and  what  disappoint- 
ments he  had  suffered,  and  yet  how,  with  all  his  troubles, 
he  had  always  put  his  best  foot  foremost — always  en- 
couraging her.  She  would  not  let  Jack  see  her  chagrin. 
This  was  part  of  Jack's  life,  just  as  similar  disappoint- 
ments had  been  part  of  her  father's. 

"  Never  mind,  blessed.  Well,  we  had  lots  of  fun 
'supposing,'  didn't  we,  Jack.  This  one  didn't  come 

356 


PETER 

true,  but  some  of  the  others  will  and  what  difference 
does  it  make,  anyway,  as  long  as  I  have  you,"  and  she 
nestled  her  face  in  his  neck.  "And  now  tell  me  what 
sort  of  a  place  it  is  and  where  daddy  and  I  are  going 
to  live,  and  all  about  it." 

And  then,  to  soften  the  disappointment  the  more  and 
to  keep  a  new  bubble  afloat,  Jack  launched  out  into  a 
description  of  the  country  and  how  beautiful  the  view 
was  from  the  edge  of  the  hill  overlooking  the  valley, 
with  the  big  oaks  crowning  the  top  and  the  lichen-cov- 
ered rocks  and  fallen  timber  blanketed  with  green  moss, 
and  the  spring  of  water  that  gushed  out  of  the  ground 
and  ran  laughing  down  the  hillside,  and  the  sweep  of 
mountains  losing  themselves  in  the  blue  haze  of  the 
distance,  and  then  finally  to  the  log-cabin  he  was  going 
to  build  for  his  own  especial  use. 

"And  only  two  miles  away,"  she  cried  in  a  joyous 
tone, — "and  I  can  ride  out  every  day!  Oh,  Jack! — 
just  think  of  it!"  And  so,  with  the  breath  of  this  new 
enthusiasm  filling  their  souls,  a  new  bubble  of  hope  and 
gladness  was  floated,  and  again  the  two  fell  to  plan- 
ning, and  "supposing,"  the  rose-glow  once  more  lighten- 
ing up  the  peaks. 

For  days  nothing  else  was  talked  of.  An  onslaught 
was  at  once  made  on  Garry's  office,  two  doors  below 
Mrs.  Hicks,  for  photographs,  plans  of  bungalows,  shan- 
ties, White  Mountain  lean-tos,  and  the  like,  and  as 
quickly  tucked  under  Ruth's  arm  and  carried  off,  with 
only  the  permission  of  the  office  boy, — Garry  himself 
being  absent  owing  to  some  matters  connected  with  a 

357 


PETER 

big  warehouse  company  in  which  he  was  interested, 
the  boy  said,  and  which  took  him  to  New  York  on  the 
early  train  and  did  not  allow  his  return  sometimes,  un- 
til after  midnight. 

These  plans  were  spread  out  under  the  lamp  on  the 
sitting-room  table,  the  two  studying  the  details,  their 
heads  together,  MacFarlane  sitting  beside  them  reading 
or  listening, — the  light  of  the  lamp  falling  on  his  earnest, 
thoughtful  face, — Jack  consulting  him  now  and  then  as 
to  the  advisability  of  further  extensions,  the  same  being 
two  rooms  shingled  inside  and  out,  with  an  annex  of 
bark  and  plank  for  Ruth's  horse,  and  a  kitchen  and 
laundry  and  no  end  of  comforts,  big  and  little, — all  to 
be  occupied  whenever  their  lucky  day  would  come  and 
the  merry  bells  ring  out  the  joyful  tidings  of  their  mar- 
riage. 

Nor  was  this  all  this  particularly  radiant  bubble  con- 
tained. Not  only  was  there  to  be  a  big  open  fireplace 
built  of  stone,  and  overhead  rafters  of  birch,  the  bark 
left  on  and  still  glistening, — but  there  were  to  be 
palms,  ferns,  hanging  baskets,  chintz  curtains,  rugs, 
pots  of  flowers,  Chinese  lanterns,  hammocks,  easy 
chairs;  and  for  all  Jack  knew,  porcelain  tubs,  electric 
bells,  steam  heat  and  hot  and  cold  water,  so  enthusiastic 
had  Ruth  become  over  the  possibilities  lurking  in  the 
15  X  20  log-hut  which  Jack  proposed  to  throw  together 
as  a  shelter  in  his  exile. 


358 


CHAPTER  XXV 

The  news  of  MacFarlane's  expected  departure  soon 
became  known  in  the  village.  There  were  not  many 
people  to  say  good-by,  the  inhabitants  having  seen 
but  little  of  the  engineer  and  still  less  of  his  daughter, 
except  as  she  flew  past,  in  a  mad  gallop,  on  her  brown 
mare,  her  hair  sometimes  down  her  back.  The  pastor 
of  the  new  church  came,  however,  to  express  his  re- 
grets, and  to  thank  Mr.  MacFarlane  for  his  interest  in 
the  church  building.  He  also  took  occasion  to  say 
many  complimentary  things  about  Garry,  extolling 
him  for  the  wonderful  manner  in  which  that  brilliant 
young  architect  had  kept  within  the  sum  set  apart  by 
the  trustees  for  its  construction,  and  for  the  skill  with 
which  the  work  was  being  done,  adding  that  as  a  slight 
reward  for  such  devotion  the  church  trustees  had  made 
Mr.  Minott  treasurer  of  the  building  fund,  believing  that 
in  this  way  all  disputes  could  the  better  be  avoided, — 
one  of  some  importance  having  already  arisen  (here 
the  reverend  gentleman  lowered  his  voice)  in  which 
Mr.  McGowan,  he  was  sorry  to  say,  who  was  building 
the  masonry,  had  attempted  an  overcharge  which  only 
Mr.  Minott's  watchful  eye  could  have  detected,  adding, 
with  a  glance  over  his  shoulder,  that  the  collapse  of  the 
embankment  had  undermined  the  contractor's  reputa- 

359 


PETER 

tion  quite  as  much  PS  the  freshet  had  his  culvert,  at 
which  MacFarlane  smiled  but  made  no  reply. 

Corinne  also  came  to  express  her  regrets,  bringing 
with  her  a  scrap  of  an  infant  in  a  teetering  baby  car- 
riage, the  whole  presided  over  by  a  nurse  in  a  blue 
dress,  white  cap,  and  white  apron,  the  ends  reaching 
to  her  feet:  not  the  Corinne,  the  scribe  is  pained  to 
say,  who,  in  the  old  days  would  twist  her  head  and 
stamp  her  little  feet  and  have  her  way  in  everything. 
But  a  woman  terribly  shrunken,  with  deep  lines  in  her 
face  and  under  her  eyes.  Jack,  man-like,  did  not  notice 
the  change,  but  Ruth  did. 

After  the  baby  had  been  duly  admired,  Ruth  tossing 
it  in  her  arms  until  it  crowed,  Corinne  being  too  tired 
for  much  enthusiasm,  had  sent  it  home,  Ruth  escorting 
it  herself  to  the  garden  gate. 

"I  am  sorry  you  are  going/'  Corinne  said  in  Ruth's 
absence.  "I  suppose  we  must  stay  on  here  until 
Garry  finishes  the  new  church.  I  haven't  seen  much 
of  Ruth, — or  of  you,  either,  Jack.  But  I  don't  see 
much  of  anybody  now, — not  even  of  Garry.  He  never 
gets  home  until  midnight,  or  even  later,  if  the  train  is 
behind  time,  and  it  generally  is." 

"Then  he  must  have  lots  of  new  work,"  cried  Jack  in 
a  cheerful  tone.  "He  told  me  the  last  time  I  saw  him 
on  the  train  that  he  expected  some  big  warehouse  job." 

Corinne  looked  out  of  the  window  and  fingered  the 
handle  of  her  parasol. 

"I  don't  believe  that  is  what  keeps  him  in  town, 
Jack,"  she  said  slowly.  "I  hoped  you  would  come  and 

360 


PETER 

see  him  last  Sunday.  Did  Garry  give  you  my  message  ? 
I  heard  you  were  at  home  to-day,  and  that  is  why  I 
came." 

"No,  he  never  said  a  single  word  about  it  or  I  would 
have  come,  of  course.  What  do  you  think,  then,  keeps 
him  in  town  so  late?"  Something  in  her  voice  made 
Jack  leave  his  own  and  take  a  seat  beside  her.  "Tell 
me,  Corinne.  I'll  do  anything  I  can  for  Garry  and 
you  too.  What  is  it?" 

"  I  don't  know,  Jack, — I  wish  I  did.  He  has  changed 
lately.  When  I  went  to  his  room  the  other  night  he  was 
walking  the  floor;  he  said  he  couldn't  sleep,  and  the 
next  morning  when  he  didn't  come  down  to  breakfast 
I  went  up  and  found  him  in  a  half  stupor.  I  had  hard 
work  to  wake  him.  Don't  tell  Ruth, — I  don't  want 
anybody  but  you  to  know,  but  I  wish  you'd  come  and 
see  him.  I've  nobody  else  to  turn  to, — won't  you, 
Jack?" 

"Come!  of  course  I'll  come,  Corinne, — now, — this 
minute,  if  he's  home,  or  to-night,  or  any  time  you  say. 
Suppose  I  go  back  with  you  and  wait.  Garry's  working 
too  hard,  that's  it, — he  was  always  that  way,  puts  his 
whole  soul  into  anything  he  gets  interested  in  and 
never  lets  up  until  it's  accomplished."  He  waited  for 
some  reply,  but  she  was  still  toying  with  the  handle  of 
her  parasol.  Her  mind  had  not  been  on  his  proffered 
help, — she  had  not  heard  him,  in  fact. 

"And,  Jack,"  she  went  on  in  the  same  heart-broken 
tone  through  which  an  unbidden  sob  seemed  to  strug- 
gle. 

361 


PETER 

'Yes,  I  am  listening,  Corinne, — what  is  it?" 

"  I  want  you  to  forgive  me  for  the  way  I  have  always 
treated  you.  I  have — 

"Why,  Corinne,  what  nonsense!  Don't  you  bother 
your  head  about  such — 

"Yes,  but  I  do,  and  it  is  because  I  have  never  done 
anything  but  be  ugly  to  you.  When  you  lived  with 
us  I " 

"But  we  were  children  then,  Corinne,  and  neither  of 
us  knew  any  better.  I  won't  hear  one  word  of  such 
nonsense.  Why,  my  dear  girl—  '  he  had  taken  her 
hand  as  she  spoke  and  the  pair  rested  on  his  knee — "do 
you  think  I  am —  No — you  are  too  sensible  a  woman 
to  think  anything  of  the  kind.  But  that  is  not  it,  Co- 
rinne— something  worries  you;"  he  asked  suddenly  with 
a  quick  glance  at  her  face.  "What  is  it?  You  shall 
have  the  best  in  me,  and  Ruth  will  help  too." 

Her  fingers  closed  over  his.  The  touch  of  the  young 
fellow,  so  full  of  buoyant  strength  and  hope  and  happi- 
ness, seemed  to  put  new  life  into  her. 

"I  don't  know,  Jack."  Her  voice  fen  to  a  whisper. 
"There  may  not  be  anything,  yet  I  live  under  an  awful 
terror.  Don't  ask  me; — only  tell  me  you  will  help  me 
if  I  need  you.  I  have  nobody  else — my  stepfather 
almost  turned  me  out  of  his  office  when  I  went  to  see 
him  the  other  day, — my  mother  doesn't  care.  She  has 
only  been  here  half  a  dozen  times,  and  that  was  when 
baby  was  born.  Hush, — here  comes  Ruth, — she  must 
not  know." 

"But  she  must  know,  Corinne.  I  never  have  any 
362 


PETER 

secrets  from  Ruth,  and  don't  you  have  any  either. 
Ruth  couldn't  be  anything  but  kind  to  you  and  she 
never  misunderstands,  and  she  is  so  helpful.  Here  she 
is.  Ruth,  dear,  we  were  just  waiting  for  you.  Corinne  is 
nervous  and  depressed,  and  imagines  all  sorts  of  things, 
one  of  which  is  that  we  don't  care  for  her;  and  I've  just 
told  her  that  we  do?" 

Ruth  looked  into  Jack's  eyes  as  if  to  get  his  meaning 
— she  must  always  get  her  cue  from  him  now — she  was 
entirely  unconscious  of  the  cause  of  it  all,  or  why  Cor- 
inne should  feel  so,  but  if  Jack  thought  Corinne  was 
suffering  and  that  she  wanted  comforting,  all  she  had 
was  at  Corinne's  and  Jack's  disposal.  With  a  quick 
movement  she  leaned  forward  and  laid  her  hand  on 
Corinne's  shoulder. 

"Why,  you  dear  Corinne, — Jack  and  I  are  not  like 
that.  What  has  gone  wrong, — tell  me,"  she  urged. 

For  a  brief  instant  Corinne  made  no  answer.  Once 
she  tried  to  speak  but  the  words  died  in  her  throat. 
Then,  lifting  up  her  hands  appealingly,  she  faltered 
out: 

"I  only  said  that  I— Oh,  Ruth!— I  am  so  wretched!" 
and  sank  back  on  the  lounge  in  an  agony  of  tears. 


363 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

At  ten  o'clock  that  same  night  Jack  went  to  the  sta- 
tion to  meet  Garry.  He  and  Ruth  had  talked  over  the 
strange  scene — unaccountable  to  both  of  them — and 
had  determined  that  Jack  should  see  Garry  at  once. 

"I  must  help  him,  Ruth,  no  matter  at  what  cost. 
Garry  has  been  my  friend  for  years;  he  has  been  taken 
up  with  his  work,  and  so  have  I,  and  we  have  drifted 
apart  a  little,  but  I  shall  never  forget  him  for  his  kind- 
ness to  me  when  I  first  came  to  New  York.  I  would 
never  have  known  Uncle  Peter  but  for  Garry,  or  Aunt 
Felicia,  or — you,  my  darling." 

Jack  waited  under  the  shelter  of  the  overhanging 
roof  until  the  young  architect  stepped  from  the  car 
and  crossed  the  track.  Garry  walked  with  the  sluggish 
movement  of  a  tired  man — hardly  able  to  drag  his 
feet  after  him. 

"I  thought  I'd  come  down  to  meet  you,  Garry,"  Jack 
cried  in  his  old  buoyant  tone.  "It's  pretty  rough  on 
you,  old  fellow,  working  so  hard." 

Garry  raised  his  head  and  peered  into  the  speaker's 
face. 

"Why,  Jack!"  he  exclaimed  in  a  surprised  tone;  the 
voice  did  not  sound  like  Garry's.  "I  didn't  see  you  in 

364 


PETER 

the  train.  Have  you  been  in  New  York  too?"  He 
evidently  understood  nothing  of  Jack's  explanation. 

"  No,  I  came  down  to  meet  you.  Corinne  was  at  Mr. 
MacFarlane's  to-day,  and  said  you  were  not  well, — 
and  so  I  thought  I'd  walk  home  with  you." 

"Oh,  thank  you,  old  man,  but  I'm  all  right.  Cor- 
inne's  nervous; — you  mustn't  mind  her.  I've  been  up 
against  it  for  two  or  three  weeks  now, — lot  of  work  of 
all  kinds,  and  that's  kept  me  a  good  deal  from  home. 
I  don't  wonder  Cory's  worried,  but  I  can't  help  it — not 
yet." 

They  had  reached  an  overhead  light,  and  Jack 
caught  a  clearer  view  of  the  man.  What  he  saw  sent  a 
shiver  through  him.  A  great  change  had  come  over  his 
friend.  His  untidy  dress, — always  so  neat  and  well 
kept;  his  haggard  eyes  and  shambling,  unsteady  walk, 
so  different  from  his  springy,  debonair  manner,  all 
showed  that  he  had  been  and  still  was  under  some  ter- 
rible mental  strain.  That  he  had  not  been  drinking  was 
evident  from  his  utterance  and  gait.  This  last  discovery 
when  his  condition  was  considered,  disturbed  him  most 
of  all,  for  he  saw  that  Garry  was  going  through  some 
terrible  crisis,  either  professional  or  financial. 

As  the  two  advanced  toward  the  door  of  the  station 
on  their  way  to  the  street,  the  big,  burly  form  of 
McGowan,  the  contractor,  loomed  up. 

"I  heard  you  wouldn't  be  up  till  late,  Mr.  Minott," 
he  exclaimed  gruffly,  blocking  Garry's  exit  to  the 
street.  "I  couldn't  find  you  at  the  Council  or  at  your 
office,  so  I  had  to  come  here.  We  haven't  had  that  last 

365 


PETER 

payment  on  the  church.  The  vouchers  is  all  ready  for 
your  signature,  so  the  head  trustee  says, — and  the 
money's  where  you  can  git  at  it." 

Garry  braced  his  shoulders  and  his  jaw  tightened. 
One  secret  of  the  young  architect's  professional  success 
lay  in  his  command  over  his  men.  Although  he  was 
considerate,  and  sometimes  familiar,  he  never  per- 
mitted any  disrespect. 

"Why,  yes,  Mr.  McGowan,  that's  so,"  he  answered 
stiffly.  "I've  been  in  New  York  a  good  deal  lately  and 
I  guess  I've  neglected  things  here.  I'll  try  to  come  up 
in  the  morning,  and  if  everything's  all  right  I'll  get  a 
certificate  and  fill  it  up  and  you'll  get  a  check  in  a  few 
days." 

"Yes,  but  you  said  that  last  week."  There  was  a 
sound  of  defiance  in  McGowan's  voice. 

"If  I  did  I  had  good  reason  for  the  delay,"  answered 
Garry  with  a  flash  of  anger.  "I'm  not  running  my 
office  to  suit  you." 

"Nor  for  anybody  else  who  wants  his  money  and 
who's  got  to  have  it,  and  I  want  to  tell  you,  Mr.  Minott, 
right  here,  and  I  don't  care  who  hears  it,  that  I  want 
mine  or  I'll  know  the  reason  why." 

Garry  wheeled  fiercely  and  raised  his  hand  as  if  to 
strike  the  speaker,  then  it  dropped  to  his  side. 

"I  don't  blame  you,  Mr.  McGowan,"  he  said  in  a 
restrained,  even  voice.  "I  have  no  doubt  that  it's  due 
you  and  you  ought  to  have  it,  but  I've  been  pretty  hard 
pressed  lately  with  some  matters  in  New  York;  so 
much  so  that  I've  been  obliged  to  take  the  early  morn- 

366 


PETER 

ing  train, — and  you  can  see  yourself  what  time  I  get 
home.  Just  give  me  a  day  or  two  longer  and  I'll  ex- 
amine the  work  and  straighten  it  out.  And  then  again, 
I'm  not  very  well." 

The  contractor  glared  into  the  speaker's  face  as  if  to 
continue  the  discussion,  then  his  features  relaxed. 
Something  in  the  sound  of  Garry's  voice,  or  perhaps 
some  line  of  suffering  in  his  face  must  have  touched  him. 

"Well,  of  course,  I  ain't  no  hog,"  he  exclaimed  in  a 
softer  tone,  which  was  meant  as  an  apology,  "and  if 
you're  sick  that  ends  it,  but  I've  got  all  them  men  to 
pay  and " 

"Yes,  I  understand  and  I  won't  forget.  Thank  you, 
Mr.  McGowan,  and  good-night.  Come  along,  Jack, — 
Corinne's  worrying,  and  will  be  till  I  get  home." 

The  two  kept  silent  as  they  walked  up  the  hill. 
Garry,  because  he  was  too  tired  to  discuss  the  cowardly 
attack;  Jack,  because  what  he  had  to  say  must  be 
said  when  they  were  alone, — when  he  could  get  hold  of 
Garry's  hand  and  make  him  open  his  heart. 

As  they  approached  the  small  house  and  mounted  the 
steps  leading  to  the  front  porch,  Corinne's  face  could 
be  seen  pressed  against  a  pane  in  one  of  the  dining- 
room  windows.  Garry  touched  Jack's  arm  and 
pointed  ahead: 

"Poor  Cory!"  he  exclaimed  with  a  deep  sigh," that's 
the  way  she  is  every  night.  Coming  home  is  sometimes 
the  worst  part  of  it  all,  Jack." 

The  door  flew  open  and  Corinne  sprang  out:  "Are 
you  tired,  dear?"  she  asked,  peering  into  his  face  and 

367 


PETER 

kissing  him.  Then  turning  to  Jack:  "Thank  you, 
Jack! — It  was  so  good  of  you  to  go.  Ruth  sent  me 
word  you  had  gone  to  meet  him." 

She  led  the  way  into  the  house,  relieving  Garry  of 
his  hat,  and  moving  up  an  easy  chair  stood  beside  it 
until  he  had  settled  himself  into  its  depths. 

Again  she  bent  over  and  kissed  him:  "How  are 
things  to-day,  dear? — any  better?"  she  inquired  in  a 
quavering  voice. 

"Some  of  them  are  better  and  some  are  worse,  Cory; 
but  there's  nothing  for  you  to  worry  about.  That's 
what  I've  been  telling  Jack.  How's  baby?  Anybody 
been  here  from  the  board? — Any  letters?" 

"Baby's  all  right,"  the  words  came  slowly,  as  if  all 
utterance  gave  her  pain.  "No,  there  are  no  letters. 
Mr.  McGowan  was  here,  but  I  told  him  you  wouldn't 
be  home  till  late." 

"Yes,  I  saw  him,"  replied  Garry,  dropping  his  voice 
suddenly  to  a  monotone,  an  expression  of  pain  followed 
by  a  shade  of  anxiety  settling  on  his  face:  McGowan 
and  his  affairs  were  evidently  unpleasant  subjects.  At 
this  instant  the  cry  of  a  child  was  heard.  Garry  roused 
himself  and  turned  his  head. 

"  Listen — that's  baby  crying!    Better  go  to  her,  Cory." 

Garry  waited  until  his  wife  had  left  the  room,  then 
he  rose  from  his  chair,  crossed  to  the  sideboard,  poured 
out  three-quarters  of  a  glass  of  raw  whiskey  and  drank 
it  without  drawing  a  breath. 

"That's  the  first  to-day,  Jack.  I  dare  not  touch  it 
when  I'm  on  a  strain  like  this.  Can't  think  clearly, 

368 


PETER 

and  I  want  my  head, — all  of  it.  There's  a  lot  of  sharks 
down  in  New  York, — skin  you  alive  if  they  could.  I 
beg  your  pardon,  old  man, — have  a  drop  ?  " 

Jack  waved  his  hand  in  denial,  his  eyes  still  on  his 
friend:  "Not  now,  Garry,  thank  you." 

Garry  dropped  the  stopper  into  the  decanter,  pushed 
back  the  empty  tumbler  and  began  pacing  the  floor, 
halting  now  and  then  to  toe  some  pattern  in  the  carpet, 
talking  all  the  time  to  himself  in  broken  sentences,  like 
one  thinking  aloud.  All  Jack's  heart  went  out  to  his 
friend  as  he  watched  him.  He  and  Ruth  were  so  happy. 
All  their  future  was  so  full  of  hope  and  promise,  and 
Garry — brilliant,  successful  Garry, — the  envy  of  all  his 
associates,  so  harassed  and  so  wretched! 

"  Garry,  sit  down  and  listen  to  me,"  Jack  said  at  last. 
"I  am  your  oldest  friend;  no  one  you  know  thinks  any 
more  of  you  than  I  do,  or  will  be  more  ready  to  help. 
Now,  what  troubles  you  ?" 

"I  tell  you,  Jack,  I'm  not  troubled!" — something  of 
the  old  bravado  rang  in  his  voice, — "except  as  every- 
body is  troubled  when  he's  trying  to  straighten  out 
something  that  won't  straighten.  I'm  knocked  out, 
that's  all,— can't  you  see  it?" 

"Yes,  I  see  it, — and  that's  not  all  I  see.  Is  it  your 
work  here  or  in  New  York  ?  I  want  to  know,  and  I'm 
going  to  know,  and  I  have  a  right  to  know,  and  you  are 
not  going  to  bed  until  you  tell  me, — nor  will  I.  I  can  and 
will  help  you,  and  so  will  Mr.  MacFarlane,  and  Uncle 
Peter,  and  everybody  I  ask.  What's  gone  wrong? — 
Tell  me!" 

369 


PETER 

Garry  continued  to  walk  the  floor.  Then  he  wheeled 
suddenly  and  threw  himself  into  his  chair. 

"Well,  Jack,"  he  answered  with  an  indrawn  sigh, — 
"if  you  must  know,  I'm  on  the  wrong  side  of  the 
market." 

"Stocks?" 

"Not  exactly.  The  bottom's  fallen  out  of  the  Ware- 
house Company." 

Jack's  heart  gave  a  rebound.  After  all,  it  was  only 
a  question  of  money  and  this  could  be  straightened  out. 
He  had  begun  to  fear  that  it  might  be  something  worse; 
what,  he  dared  not  conjecture. 

"And  you  have  lost  money?"  Jack  continued  in  a 
less  eager  tone. 

"A  whole  lot  of  money." 

"How  much?" 

"I  don't  know,  but  a  lot.  It  went  up  three  points 
to-day  and  so  I  am  hanging  on  by  my  eyelids." 

"Well,  that's  not  the  first  time  men  have  been  in 
that  position,"  Jack  replied  in  a  hopeful  tone.  "Is 
there  anything  more, — something  you  are  keeping 
back?" 

"Yes, — a  good  deal  more.  I'm  afraid  I'll  have  to 
let  go.  If  I  do  I'm  ruined." 

Jack  kept  silent  for  a  moment.  Various  ways  of 
raising  money  to  help  his  friend  passed  in  review,  none 
of  which  at  the  moment  seemed  feasible  or  possible. 

"How  much  will  make  your  account  good?"  he 
asked  after  a  pause. 

"About  ten  thousand  dollars." 
370 


PETER 

Jack  leaned  forward  in  his  chair.  "Ten  thousand 
dollars!"  he  exclaimed  in  a  startled  tone.  "Why, 
Garry — how  in  the  name  of  common-sense  did  you 
get  in  as  deep  as  that?" 

"Because  I  was  a  damned  fool!" 

Again  there  was  silence,  during  which  Garry  fum- 
bled for  a  match,  opened  his  case  and  lighted  a  ciga- 
rette. Then  he  said  slowly,  as  he  tossed  the  burnt  end 
of  the  match  from  him: 

"You  said  something,  Jack,  about  some  of  your 
friends  helping.  Could  Mr.  MacFarlane?" 

"  No, — he  hasn't  got  it, — not  to  spare.  I  was  think- 
ing of  another  kind  of  help  when  I  spoke.  I  supposed 
you  had  got  into  debt,  or  something,  and  were  depend- 
ing on  your  commissions  to  pull  you  out,  and  that  some 
new  job  was  hanging  fire  and  perhaps  some  of  us  could 
help  as  we  did  on  the  church." 

"  No,"  rejoined  Garry,  in  a  hopeless  tone,  "  nothing 
will  help  but  a  certified  check.  Perhaps  your  Mr. 
Grayson  might  do  something,"  he  continued  in  the 
same  voice. 

"Uncle  Peter!  Why,  Garry,  he  doesn't  earn  ten 
thousand  dollars  in  three  years." 

Again  there  was  silence. 

"Well,  would  it  be  any  use  for  you  to  ask  Arthur 
Breen?  He  wouldn't  give  me  a  cent,  and  I  wouldn't 
ask  him.  I  don't  believe  in  laying  down  on  your  wife's 
relations,  but  he  might  do  it  for  you  now  that  you're 
getting  up  in  the  world." 

Jack  bent  his  head  in  deep  thought.  The  proposal 
371 


PETER 

that  his  uncle  had  made  him  for  the  ore  lands  passed  in 
review.  At  that  time  he  could  have  turned  over  the 
property  to  Breen.  But  it  was  worthless  now.  He 
shook  his  head: 

" I  don't  think  so."  Then  he  added  quickly—  "Have 
you  been  to  Mr.  Morris?" 

"No,  and  won't.  I'd  die  first!"  this  came  in  a  sharp, 
determined  voice,  as  if  it  had  jumped  hot  from  his 
heart. 

"But  he  thinks  the  world  of  you;  it  was  only  a 
week  ago  that  he  told  Mr.  MacFarlane  that  you  were 
the  best  man  he  ever  had  in  his  office. " 

"Yes, — that's  why  I  won't  go,  Jack.  I'll  play  my 
hand  alone  and  take  the  consequences,  but  I  won't  beg  of 
my  friends;  not  a  friend  like  Mr.  Morris;  any  coward 
can  do  that.  Mr.  Morris  believes  in  me, — I  want  him 
to  continue  to  believe  in  me.  That's  worth  twenty  times 
ten  thousand  dollars."  His  eyes  flashed  for  the  first 
time.  Again  the  old  Garry  shone  out. 

"When  must  you  have  this  money?" 

"By  the  end  of  the  week, — before  next  Monday, 
anyhow." 

"Then  the  situation  is  not  hopeless  ?" 

"No,  not  entirely.  I  have  one  card  left; — I'll  play 
it  to-morrow,  then  I'll  know." 

"Is  there  a  chance  of  its  winning?" 

"Yes  and  no.  As  for  the  'yes,'  I've  always  had  my 
father's  luck.  Minotts  don't  go  under  and  I  don't  be- 
lieve I  shall,  we  take  risks  and  we  win.  That's  what 
brought  me  to  Corklesville,  and  you  see  what  I  have 

372 


PETER 

made  of  myself.  Just  at  present  I've  got  my  foot  in  a 
bear  trap,  but  I'll  pull  out  somehow.  As  for  the  '  no ' 
part  of  it, — I  ought  to  tell  you  that  the  warehouse  stock 
has  been  knocked  endways  by  another  corporation 
which  has  a  right  of  wTay  that  cuts  ours  and  is  going 
to  steal  our  business.  I  think  it's  a  put-up  job  to 
bear  our  stock  so  they  can  scoop  it  and  consolidate; 
that's  why  I  am  holding  on.  I've  flung  in  every  dollar  I 
can  rake  and  scrape  for  margin  and  my  stocking's  about 
turned  inside  out.  I  got  a  tip  last  week  that  I  thought 
would  land  us  all  on  our  feet,  but  it  worked  the  other 
way."  Something  connected  with  the  tip  must  have 
stirred  him  for  his  face  clouded  as  he  rose  to  his  feet, 
exclaiming:  "Have  a  drop,  Jack? — that  last  one 
braced  me  up." 

Again  Jack  shook  his  head,  and  again  Garry  settled 
himself  back  in  his  chair. 

"I  am  powerless,  Garry,"  said  Jack.  "If  I  had  the 
money  you  should  have  it.  I  have  nothing  but  my 
salary  and  I  have  drawn  only  a  little  of  that  lately,  so 
as  to  help  out  in  starting  the  new  work.  I  thought  I 
had  something  in  an  ore  bank  my  father  left  me,  but  it 
is  valueless,  I  find.  I  suppose  I  could  put  some  life  in 
it  if  I  would  work  it  along  the  lines  Uncle  Arthur  wants 
me  to,  but  I  can't  and  won't  do  that.  Somehow, 
Garry,  this  stock  business  follows  me  everywhere.  It 
drove  me  out  of  Uncle  Arthur's  office  and  house,  al- 
though I  never  regretted  that, — and  now  it  hits  you. 
I  couldn't  do  anything  to  help  Charlie  Gilbert  then  and 
I  can't  do  anything  to  help  you  now,  unless  you  can 

373 


PETER 

think  of  some  way.  Is  there  any  one  that  I  can  see 
except  Uncle  Arthur, — anybody  I  can  talk  to?" 

Garry  shook  his  head. 

"I've  done  that,  Jack.  Fve  followed  every  lead, 
borrowed  every  dollar  I  could, — been  turned  down  half 
a  dozen  times,  but  I  kept  on.  Got  it  in  the  neck  twice 
to-day  from  some  fellows  I  thought  would  help  push." 

Jack  started  forward,  a  light  breaking  over  his  face. 

"I  have  it,  Garry!  Suppose  that  I  go  to  Mr.  Morris. 
I  can  talk  to  him,  maybe,  in  a  way  you  would  not  like 
to." 

Garry  lifted  his  head  and  sat  erect. 

"No,  by  God!— you'll  do  nothing  of  the  kind!"  he 
cried,  as  he  brought  his  fist  down  on  the  arm  of  his 
chair.  "That  man  I  love  as  I  love  nothing  else  in  this 
world — wife — baby — nothing!  I'll  go  under,  but  I'll 
never  let  him  see  me  crawl.  I'll  be  Garry  Minott  to  him 
as  long  as  I  breathe.  The  same  man  he  trusted, — the 
same  man  he  loved, — for  he  does  love  me,  and  always 
did!"  He  hesitated  and  his  voice  broke,  as  if  a  sob 
clogged  it.  After  a  moment's  struggle  he  went  on:  "I 
was  a  damned  fool  to  leave  him  or  I  wouldn't  be  where 
I  am.  '  Garry,'  he  said  to  me  that  last  day  when  he 
took  me  into  his  office  and  shut  the  door, — f  Garry, 
stay  on  here  a  while  longer;  wait  till  next  year.  If  it's 
more  pay  you  want,  fix  it  to  suit  yourself.  I've  got  two 
boys  coming  along;  they'll  both  be  through  the  Beaux 
Arts  in  a  year  or  so.  I'm  getting  on  and  I'm  getting 
tired.  Stay  on  and  go  in  with  them.'  And  what  did  I 
do  ?  Well,  what's  the  use  of  talking  ? — you  know  it  all." 

374 


PETER 

Jack  moved  his  chair  and  put  his  arm  over  his 
shoulder  as  a  woman  would  have  done.  He  had  caught 
the  break  in  his  voice  and  knew  how  manfully  he  was 
struggling  to  keep  up. 

"  Garry,  old  man." 

"Yes,  Jack." 

"If  Mr.  Morris  thought  that  way,  then,  why  won't 
he  help  you  now  ?  What's  ten  thousand  to  him  ?" 

"Nothing, — not  a  drop  in  the  bucket!  He'd  begin 
drawing  the  check  before  I'd  finished  telling  him  what 
I  wanted  it  for.  I'm  in  a  hole  and  don't  know  which 
way  to  turn,  but  when  I  think  of  what  he's  done  for  me 
I'll  rot  in  hell  before  I'll  take  his  money."  Again  his 
voice  had  the  old  ring. 

"But,  Garry,"  insisted  Jack,  "if  I  can  see  Morris  in 
the  morning  and  lay  the  whole  matter  before  him — 

"You'll  do  nothing  of  the  kind,  do  you  hear! — keep 
still — somebody's  coming  downstairs.  Not  a  word  if 
it  is  Corinne.  She  is  carrying  now  all  she  can  stand 
up  under." 

He  passed  his  hand  across  his  face  with  a  quick  move- 
ment and  brushed  the  tears  from  his  cheeks. 

"Remember,  not  a  word.  I  haven't  told  her  every- 
thing. I  tried  to,  but  I  couldn't." 

"Tell  her  now,  Garry,"  cried  Jack.  "Now— to- 
night," his  voice  rising  on  the  last  word.  "Before  you 
close  your  eyes.  You  never  needed  her  help  as  you 
do  now." 

"I  can't — it  would  break  her  heart.  Keep  still! — 
that's  her  step." 

375 


PETER 

Corinne  entered  the  room  slowly  and  walked  to 
Garry's  chair. 

"Baby's  asleep  now,"  she  said  in  a  subdued  voice, 
"and  I'm  going  to  take  you  to  bed.  You  won't  mind, 
Jack,  will  you  ?  Come,  dear,"  and  she  slipped  her  hand 
under  his  arm  to  lift  him  from  his  chair. 

Garry  rose  from  his  seat. 

"All  right,"  he  answered  assuming  his  old  cheerful 
tone,  "I'll  go.  I  am  tired,  I  guess,  Cory,  and  bed's  the 
best  place  for  me.  Good-night,  old  man, — give  my  love 
to  Ruth,"  and  he  followed  his  wife  out  of  the  room. 

Jack  waited  until  the  two  had  turned  to  mount  the 
stairs,  caught  a  significant  flash  from  Garry's  dark 
eyes  as  a  further  reminder  of  his  silence,  and,  opening 
the  front  door,  closed  it  softly  behind  him. 

Ruth  was  waiting  for  him.  She  had  been  walking 
the  floor  during  the  last  half  hour  peering  out  now  and 
then  into  the  dark,  with  ears  wide  open  for  his  step. 

"I  was  so  worried,  my  precious,"  she  cried,  drawing 
his  cheek  down  to  her  lips.  "You  stayed  so  long.  Is  it 
very  dreadful?" 

Jack  put  his  arm  around  her,  led  her  into  the  sitting- 
room  and  shut  the  door.  Then  the  two  settled  beside 
each  other  on  the  sofa. 

"Pretty  bad, — my  darling — "  Jack  answered  at 
last, — "very  bad,  really." 

"Has  he  been  drinking?" 

"Worse, — he  has  been  dabbling  in  Wall  Street  and 
may  lose  every  cent  he  has." 

376 


PETER 

Ruth  leaned  her  head  on  her  hand:  "I  was  afraid 
it  was  something  awful  from  the  way  Corinne  spoke. 
Oh,  poor  dear, — I'm  so  sorry!  Does  she  know  now?" 

"She  knows  he's  in  trouble,  but  she  doesn't  know 
how  bad  it  is.  I  begged  him  to  tell  her,  but  he  wouldn't 
promise.  He's  afraid  of  hurting  her — afraid  to  trust 
her,  I  think,  with  his  sufferings.  He's  making  an  awful 
mistake,  but  I  could  not  move  him.  He  might  listen 
to  you  if  you  tried." 

"But  he  must  tell  her,  Jack,"  Ruth  cried  in  an  indig- 
nant tone.  "It  is  not  fair  to  her;  it  is  not  fair  to  any 
woman, — and  it  is  not  kind.  Corinne  is  not  a  child  any 
longer; — she's  a  grown  woman,  and  a  mother.  How 
can  she  help  him  unless  she  knows  ?  Jack,  dear,  look 
into  my  eyes ; "  her  face  was  raised  to  his ; —  "  Promise 
me,  my  darling,  that  no  matter  what  happens  to  you, 
you'll  tell  me  first." 

And  Jack  promised. 


377 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

When  Jack  awoke  the  next  morning  his  mind  was 
still  intent  on  helping  Garry  out  of  his  difficulties. 
Where  the  money  was  to  come  from,  and  how  far  even 
ten  thousand  dollars  would  go  in  bridging  over  the 
crisis,  even  should  he  succeed  in  raising  so  large  a  sum, 
were  the  questions  which  caused  him  the  most  anxiety. 

A  letter  from  Peter,  while  it  did  not  bring  any  posi- 
tive relief,  shed  a  ray  of  light  on  the  situation: 

I  have  just  had  another  talk  with  the  director  of  our  bank — 
the  one  I  told  you  was  interested  in  steel  works  in  Western 
Maryland.  He  by  no  means  agrees  with  either  you  or  Mac- 
Farlane  as  to  the  value  of  the  ore  deposits  in  that  section,  and  is 
going  to  make  an  investigation  of  your  property  and  let  me 
know.  You  may,  in  fact,  hear  from  him  direct  as  I  gave  him 
your  address. 

Dear  love  to  Ruth  and  your  own  good  self. 

This  was  indeed  good  news  if  anything  came  of  it, 
but  it  wouldn't  help  Garry.  Should  he  wait  till  Garry 
had  played  that  last  card  he  had  spoken  of,  which 
he  was  so  sure  would  win,  or  should  he  begin  at  once  to 
try  and  raise  the  money  ? 

This  news  at  any  other  time  would  have  set  his  hopes 
to  fluttering.  If  Peter's  director  was  made  of  money 

378 


PETER 

and  intent  on  throwing  it  away;  and  if  a  blast  furnace 
or  a  steel  plant,  or  whatever  could  turn  worthless  rock 
into  pruning-hooks  and  ploughshares,  should  by  some 
act  of  folly  be  built  in  the  valley  at  the  foot  of  the  hill 
he  owned,  why  something  might  come  of  it.  But, 
then,  so  might  skies  fall  and  everybody  have  larks  on 
toast  for  breakfast.  Until  then  his  concern  was  with 
Garry. 

He  realized  that  the  young  architect  was  too  broken 
down  physically  and  mentally  to  decide  any  question 
of  real  moment.  His  will  power  was  gone  and  his 
nerves  unstrung.  The  kindest  thing  therefore  that  any 
friend  could  do  for  him,  would  be  to  step  in  and  con- 
duct the  fight  without  him.  Garry's  wishes  to  keep 
the  situation  from  Corinne  would  be  respected,  but 
that  did  not  mean  that  his  own  efforts  should  be  re- 
laxed. Yet  where  would  he  begin,  and  on  whom? 
MacFarlane  had  just  told  him  that  Morris  was  away 
from  home  and  would  not  be  back  for  several  days. 
Peter  was  out  of  the  question  so  far  as  his  own  means — 
or  lack  of  means — was  concerned,  and  he  could  not, 
of  course,  ask  him  to  go  into  debt  for  a  man  who  had 
never  been  his  friend,  especially  when  neither  he  nor 
Garry  had  any  security  to  offer. 

He  finally  decided  to  talk  the  whole  matter  over  with 
MacFarlane  and  act  on  his  advice.  The  clear  business 
head  of  his  Chief  cleared  the  situation  as  a  north-west 
wind  blows  out  a  fog. 

"Stay  out  of  it,  Jack,"  he  exclaimed  in  a  quick, 
positive  voice  that  showed  he  had  made  up  his  mind 

379 


PETER 

long  before  Jack  had  finished  his  recital.  "Minott  is 
a  gambler,  and  so  was  his  father  before  him.  He  has 
got  to  take  his  lean  with  his  fat.  If  you  pulled  him 
out  of  this  hole  he  would  be  in  another  in  six  months. 
It's  in  his  blood,  just  as  much  as  it  is  in  your  blood  to 
love  horses  and  the  woods.  Let  him  alone; — Corinne's 
stepfather  is  the  man  to  help;  that's  his  business,  and 
that's  where  Minott  wants  to  go.  If  there  is  anything 
of  value  in  this  Warehouse  Company,  Arthur  Breen 
&  Co.  can  carry  the  certificates  for  Minott  until  they 
go  up  and  he  can  get  out.  If  there  is  nothing,  then 
the  sooner  Garry  sells  out  and  lets  it  go  the  better. 
Stay  out,  Jack.  It's  not  in  the  line  of  your  duty.  It's 
hard  on  his  wife  and  he  is  having  a  devil  of  a  row  to 
hoe,  but  it  will  be  the  best  thing  for  him  in  the  end." 

Jack  listened  in  respectful  silence,  as  he  always  did, 
to  MacFarlane's  frank  outburst,  but  it  neither  changed 
his  mind  nor  cooled  his  ardor.  Where  his  heart  was 
concerned  his  judgment  rarely  worked.  Then,  loyalty 
to  a  friend  in  distress  was  the  one  thing  his  father  had 
taught  him.  He  did  not  agree  with  his  Chief's  view  of 
the  situation.  If  Garry  was  born  a  gambler,  he  had 
kept  that  fact  concealed  from  him  and  from  his  wife. 
He  recalled  the  conversation  he  had  had  with  him 
some  weeks  before,  when  he  was  so  enthusiastic  over 
the  money  he  was  going  to  make  in  the  new  Warehouse 
deal.  He  had  been  selected  as  the  architect  for  the 
new  buildings,  and  it  was  quite  natural  that  he  should 
have  become  interested  in  the  securities  of  the  com- 
pany. This  threatened  calamity  was  one  that  might 

380 


PETER 

overtake  any  man.  Get  Garry  out  of  this  hole  and  he 
would  stay  out;  let  him  sink,  and  his  whole  career  would 
be  ruined.  And  then  there  was  a  sentimental  side  to 
it  even  if  Garry  was  a  gambler — one  that  could  not  be 
ignored  when  he  thought  of  Corinne  and  the  child. 

Late  in  the  afternoon,  his  mind  still  unsettled,  he 
poured  out  his  anxieties  to  Ruth.  She  did  not  disap- 
point him.  Her  big  heart  swelled  only  with  sympathy 
for  the  wife  who  was  suffering.  It  made  no  difference 
to  her  that  Corinne  had  never  been  even  polite,  never 
once  during  the  sojourn  of  the  Minotts  in  the  village 
having  manifested  the  slightest  interest  either  in  her 
own  or  Jack's  affairs — not  even  when  MacFarlane  was 
injured,  nor  yet  when  the  freshet  might  have  ruined 
them  all.  Ruth's  generous  nature  had  no  room  in  it 
for  petty  rancors  or  little  hurts.  Then,  too,  Jack  was 
troubled  for  his  friend.  What  was  there  for  her  to  do 
but  to  follow  the  lamp  he  held  up  to  guide  her  feet— 
the  lamp  which  now  shed  its  glad  effulgence  over  both  ? 
So  they  talked  on,  discussing  various  ways  and  means, 
new  ties  born  of  a  deeper  understanding  binding  them 
the  closer — these  two,  who,  as  they  sometimes  whis- 
pered to  each  other,  were  "enlisted  for  life,"  ready  to 
meet  it  side  by  side,  whatever  the  day  developed. 

Before  they  parted,  she  promised  again  to  go  and 
see  Corinne  and  cheer  her  up.  "She  cannot  be  left 
alone,  Jack,  with  this  terrible  thing  hanging  over  her," 
she  urged,  "and  you  must  meet  Garry  when  he  returns 
to-night.  Then  we  can  learn  what  he  has  done — 
perhaps  he  will  have  fixed  everything  himself."  But 

381 


PETER 

though  Jack  went  to  the  station  and  waited  until  the 
arrival  of  the  last  train  had  dropped  its  passengers, 
there  was  no  sign  of  Garry.  Nor  did  Ruth  find 
Corinne.  She  had  gone  to  the  city,  so  the  nurse  said, 
with  Mr.  Minott  by  the  early  train  and  would  not  be 
back  until  the  next  day.  Until  their  return  Jack  and 
Ruth  found  their  hands  tied. 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  second  day  a  boy  called  at 
the  brick  office  where  Jack  was  settling  up  the  final 
accounts  connected  with  the  "fill"  and  the  tunnel, 
preparatory  to  the  move  to  Morfordsburg,  and  handed 
him  a  note.  It  was  from  Corinne. 

"  I  am  in  great  trouble.  Please  come  to  me  at  once," 
it  read.  "I  am  here  at  home." 

Corinne  was  waiting  for  him  in  the  hall.  She  took 
his  hand  without  a  word  of  welcome,  and  drew  him 
into  the  small  room  where  she  had  seen  him  two  nights 
before.  This  time  she  shut  and  locked  the  door. 

"Mr.  McGowan  has  just  been  here,"  she  moaned  in 
a  voice  that  showed  how  terrible  was  the  strain.  "He 
tried  to  force  his  way  up  into  Garry's  room  but  I  held 
him  back.  He  is  coming  again  with  some  one  of  the 
church  trustees.  Garry  had  a  bad  turn  in  New  York 
and  we  came  home  by  the  noon  train,  and  I  have  made 
him  lie  down  and  sent  for  the  doctor.  McGowan 
must  not  see  him;  it  will  kill  him  if  he  does.  Don't 
leave  us,  Jack!" 

"  But  how  dare  he  come  here  and  try  to  force  his ' 

"He  will  dare.  He  cursed  and  went  on  dreadfully. 
382 


PETER 

The  door  was  shut,  but  Garry  heard  him.  Oh,  Jack! 
— what  are  we  to  do?" 

"Don't  worry,  Corinne;  I'll  take  care  of  Mr.  Mc- 
Gowan.  I  myself  heard  Garry  tell  him  that  he  would 
attend  to  his  payments  in  a  few  days,  and  he  went  away 
satisfied." 

"Yes,  but  McGowan  says  he  has  been  to  the  bank 
and  has  also  seen  the  Rector,  and  will  stop  at  nothing." 

Jack's  fingers  tightened  and  his  lips  came  together. 

"He  will  stop  on  that  threshold,"  he  said  in  a  low, 
determined  voice,  "and  never  pass  it — no  matter  what 
he  wants.  I  will  go  up  and  tell  Garry  so." 

"No,  not  yet — wait,"  she  pleaded,  in  nervous  twitch- 
ing tones — with  pauses  between  each  sentence.  "You 
must  hear  it  all  first.  Garry  had  not  told  me  all  when 
you  were  here  two  nights  ago;  he  did  not  tell  me  until 
after  you  left.  Then  I  knelt  down  by  his  bed  and  put 
my  arms  around  him  and  he  told  me  everything — about 
the  people  he  had  seen — and — McGowan — everything." 
She  ceased  speaking  and  hid  her  eyes  with  the  back  of 
one  hand  as  if  to  shut  out  some  spectre,  then  she  stum- 
bled on.  "We  took  the  early  train  for  New  York,  and 
I  waited  until  my  stepfather  was  in  his  office  and  went 
into  his  private  room.  It  was  Garry's  last  hope.  He 
thought  Mr.  Breen  would  listen  to  me  on  account  of 
mother.  I  told  him  of  our  dreadful  situation;  how 
Garry  must  have  ten  thousand  dollars,  and  must  have 
it  in  twenty-four  hours,  to  save  us  all  from  ruin.  Would 
you  believe,  Jack — that  he  laughed  and  said  it  was  an 
old  story;  that  Garry  had  no  business  to  be  speculating; 

383 


PETER 

that  he  had  told  him  a  dozen  times  to  keep  out  of  the 
Street;  that  if  Garry  had  any  collaterals  of  any  kind, 
he  would  loan  him  ten  thousand  dollars  or  any  other 
sum,  but  that  he  had  no  good  money  to  throw  after 
bad.  I  did  all  I  could;  I  almost  went  down  on  my 
knees  to  him;  I  begged  for  myself  and  my  mother,  but 
he  only  kept  saying — 'You  go  home,  Corinne,  and 
look  after  your  baby — women  don't  understand  these 
things/  Oh,  Jack! — I  could  not  believe  that  he  was 
the  same  man  who  married  my  mother — and  he  isn't. 
Every  year  he  has  grown  harder  and  harder;  he  is  a 
thousand  times  worse  than  when  you  lived  with  him. 
Garry  was  waiting  outside  for  me,  and  when  I  told  him 
he  turned  as  white  as  a  sheet,  and  had  to  hold  on  to 
the  iron  railing  for  a  moment.  It  was  all  I  could  do 
to  get  him  home.  If  he  sees  Mr.  McGowan  now  it 
will  kill  him;  he  can't  pay  him  and  he  must  tell  him 
so,  and  it  will  all  come  out." 

"But  he  will  pay  him,  Corinne,  when  he  gets  well." 

There  came  a  pause.  Then  she  said  slowly  as  if 
each  word  was  wrung  from  her  heart: 

"There  is  no  money.  Garry  took  the  trust  funds 
from  the  church." 

"  No  money,  Corinne !  You  don't  mean — you  can't — 
Oh!  My  God!  Not  Garry!  No— not  Garry!" 

"Yes!  I  mean  it.  He  expected  to  pay  it  back,  but 
the  people  he  is  with  in  New  York  lied  to  him,  and 
now  it  is  all  gone."  There  was  no  change  in  her  voice. 

She  stood  gazing  into  his  face;  not  a  tear  in  her 
eyes;  no  quiver  of  her  lips.  She  had  passed  that 

384 


PETER 

stage;  she  was  like  a  victim  led  to  the  stake  in  whom 
nothing  but  dull  endurance  is  left. 

Jack  backed  into  a  chair  and  sat  with  bowed  head, 
his  cheeks  in  his  hands.  Had  the  earth  opened  under 
him  he  could  not  have  been  more  astounded.  Garry 
Minott  a  defaulter!  Garry  a  thief!  Everything  seemed 
to  whirl  about  him — only  the  woman  remained  quiet — 
still  standing — her  calm,  impassive  eyes  fixed  on  his 
bowed  head;  her  dry,  withering,  soulless  words  still 
vibrating  in  the  hushed  room. 

"When  did  this  happen,  Corinne — this — this  taking 
of  Mr.  McGowan's  money?"  The  words  came  be- 
tween his  closed  fingers,  as  if  he,  too,  would  shut  out 
some  horrible  shape. 

"Some  two  weeks  ago." 

"When  did  you  know  of  it?" 

"Night  before  last,  after  you  left  him.  I  knew  he 
was  in  trouble,  but  I  did  not  know  it  was  as  bad  as 
this.  If  Mr.  Breen  had  helped  me  everything  would 
have  been  all  right,  for  Garry  sold  out  all  the  stock  he 
had  in  the  Warehouse  Company,  and  this  ten  thousand 
dollars  is  all  he  owes."  She  shivered  as  she  spoke, 
and  her  pale,  tired  eyes  closed  as  if  in  pain.  Nothing 
was  said  between  them  for  a  while,  and  neither  of 
them  stirred.  During  the  silence  the  front  door  was 
heard  to  open,  letting  in  the  village  doctor,  who  mounted 
the  stairs,  his  footfalls  reverberating  in  Garry's  room 
overhead. 

Jack  raised  his  eyes  at  last  and  studied  her  closely. 
The  frail  body  seemed  more  crumpled  and  forlorn  in 

385 


PETER 

the  depths  of  the  chair,  where  she  had  sunk,  than  when 
she  had  been  standing  before  him.  The  blonde  hair, 
always  so  glossy,  was  dry  as  hemp;  the  small,  upturned 
nose,  once  so  piquant  and  saucy,  was  thin  and  pinched 
— almost  transparent;  the  washed-out,  colorless  eyes, 
which  in  her  girlhood  had  flashed  and  sparkled  so 
roguishly,  were  half  hidden  under  swollen  lids.  The 
arms  were  flat,  the  hands  like  bird  claws.  The  white 
heat  of  a  furnace  of  agony  had  shrivelled  her  poor 
body,  drying  up  all  the  juices  of  its  youth 

And  yet  with  the  scorching  there  had  crept  into  the 
wan  face,  and  into  the  tones  of  her  tired,  heart-broken 
voice  something  Jack  had  never  found  in  her  as  a  girl- 
something  of  tenderness,  unselfishness — of  self-sacrifice 
for  another,  and  with  it  there  flamed  up  in  his  own 
heart  a  determination  to  help — to  wipe  out  everything — 
to  sponge  the  record,  to  reestablish  the  man  who  in  a 
moment  of  agony  had  given  way  to  an  overpowering 
temptation  and  brought  his  wife  to  this  condition.  A 
lump  rose  in  his  throat,  and  a  look  of  his  old  father 
shone  out  of  his  face — that  look  with  which  in  the 
years  gone  by  he  had  defied  jury,  district  attorney,  and 
public  opinion  for  what  he  considered  mercy.  And 
mercy  should  be  exercised  now.  Garry  had  never  done 
one  dishonest  act  before,  and  never,  God  helping, 
should  he  be  judged  for  this. 

He,  John  Breen,  let  Garry  be  called  a  common 
thief!  Garry  whose  every  stand  in  Corklesville  had 
been  for  justice;  Garry  whom  Morris  loved,  whose 
presence  brought  a  cheery  word  of  welcome  from  every 

386 


PETER 

room  he  entered!  Let  him  be  proclaimed  a  defaulter, 
insulted  by  ruffians^like  McGowan,  and  treated  like  a 
felon — brilliant,  lovable,  forceful  Garry!  Never,  if 
he  had  to  go  down  on  his  knees  to  Holker  Morris  or 
any  other  man  who  could  lend  him  a  dollar. 

Corinne  must  have  seen  the  new  look  in  his  face,  for 
her  own  eyes  brightened  as  she  asked: 

"  Have  you  thought  of  something  that  can  help  him  ?  " 

Jack  did  not  answer.  His  mind  was  too  intent  on 
finding  some  thread  which  would  unravel  the  tangle. 

"Does  anybody  else  know  of  this,  Corinne?"  he 
asked  at  last  in  a  low-pitched  voice. 

"Nobody." 

"Nobody  must,"  he  exclaimed  firmly.  Then  he 
added  gently— "Why  did  you  tell  me?" 

"He  asked  me  to.  It  would  all  have  come  out  in 
the  end,  and  he  didn't  want  you  to  see  McGowan  and 
not  know  the  truth.  Keep  still — some  one  is  knocking," 
she  whispered,  her  fingers  pressed  to  her  lips  in  her 
fright.  "I  know  it  is  McGowan,  Jack.  Shall  I  see 
him,  or  will  you?" 

"I  will — you  stay  here." 

Jack  lifted  himself  erect  and  braced  back  his  shoul- 
ders. He  intended  to  be  polite  to  McGowan,  but  he 
also  intended  to  be  firm.  He  also  intended  to  refuse 
him  any  information  or  promise  of  any  kind  until  the 
regular  monthly  meeting  of  the  Church  Board  which 
would  occur  on  Monday.  This  would  give  him  time 
to  act,  and  perhaps  to  save  the  situation,  desperate  as 
it  looked. 

387 


PETER 

With  this  in  his  mind  he  turned  the  key  and  threw 
wide  the  door.  It  was  the  doctor  who  stood  outside. 
He  seemed  to  be  laboring  under  some  excitement. 

"I  heard  you  were  here,  Mr.  Breen — come  upstairs." 

Jacked  obeyed  mechanically.  Garry  had  evidently 
heard  of  his  being  downstairs  and  had  some  instructions 
to  give,  or  some  further  confession  to  make.  He  would 
save  him  now  from  that  humiliation;  he  would  get  his 
arms  around  him,  as  Corinne  had  done,  and  tell  him 
he  was  still  his  friend  and  what  he  yet  intended  to  do 
to  pull  him  through,  and  that  nothing  which  he  had 
done  had  wrecked  his  affection  for  him. 

As  these  thoughts  rushed  over  him  his  pace  quick- 
ened, mounting  the  stairs  two  steps  at  a  time  so  that  he 
might  save  his  friend  even  a  moment  of  additional 
suffering.  The  doctor  touched  Jack  on  the  shoulder, 
made  a  sign  for  him  to  moderate  his  steps,  and  the  two 
moved  to  where  his  patient  lay. 

Garry  was  on  the  bed,  outside  the  covering,  when 
they  entered.  He  was  lying  on  his  back,  his  head  and 
neck  flat  on  a  pillow,  one  foot  resting  on  the  floor.  He 
was  in  his  trousers  and  shirt;  his  coat  and  waistcoat  lay 
where  he  had  thrown  them. 

"Garry,"  began  Jack  in  a  low  voice — "I  just  ran  in 
to  say  that " 

The  sick  man  did  not  move. 

Jack  stopped,  and  turned  his  head  to  the  doctor. 

"Asleep?"  he  whispered. 

"No; — drugged.  That's  why  I  wanted  you  to  see 
him  before  I  called  his  wife.  Is  he  accustomed  to  this 

388 


PETER 

sort  of  thing?"  and  he  picked  up  a  bottle  from  the 
table. 

Jack  took  the  phial  in  his  hand;  it  was  quite  small, 
and  had  a  glass  stopper. 

"What  is  it,  doctor?" 

"I  don't  know.  Some  preparation  of  chloral,  I 
should  think;  smells  and  looks  like  it.  I'll  take  it 
home  and  find  out.  If  he's  been  taking  this  right  along 
he  may  know  how  much  he  can  stand,  but  if  he's 
experimenting  with  it,  he'll  wake  up  some  fine  morning 
in  the  next  world.  What  do  you  know  about  it?" 

"Only  what  I  have  heard  Mrs.  Minott  say,"  Jack 
whispered  behind  his  hand.  "  He  can't  sleep  without  it, 
she  told  me.  He's  been  under  a  terrible  business  strain 
lately  and  couldn't  stand  the  pressure,  I  expect." 

"Well,  that's  a  little  better,"  returned  the  doctor, 
moving  the  apparently  lifeless  arm  aside  and  placing 
his  ear  close  to  the  patient's  breast.  For  a  moment  he 
listened  intently,  then  he  drew  up  a  chair  and  sat  down 
beside  him,  his  fingers  on  Garry's  pulse. 

"You  don't  think  he's  in  danger,  do  you,  doctor?" 
asked  Jack  in  an  anxious  tone. 

"No — he'll  pull  through.  His  breathing  is  bad,  but 
his  heart  is  doing  fairly  well.  But  he's  got  to  stop  this 
sort  of  thing."  Here  the  old  doctor's  voice  rose  as  his 
indignation  increased  (nothing  would  wake  Garry). 
"It's  criminal — it's  damnable!  Every  time  one  of  you 
New  York  people  get  worried,  or  short  of  money  or 
stocks,  or  what  not,  off  you  go  to  a  two-cent  drug  shop 
and  buy  enough  poison  to  kill  a  family.  It's  damnable, 

389 


PETER 

Breen — and  you  must  tell  Minott  so  when  he  wakes 
up." 

Jack  made  no  protest  against  being  included  in  the 
denunciation.  He  was  too  completely  absorbed  in  the 
fate  of  the  man  who  lay  in  a  stupor. 

"Is  there  anything  can  be  done  for  him?"  he  asked. 

"I  can't  tell  yet.  He  may  only  have  taken  a  small 
dose.  I  will  watch  him  for  a  while.  But  if  his  pulse 
weakens  we  must  shake  him  awake  somehow.  You 
needn't  wait  I'll  call  you  if  I  want  you,  You've  told 
me  what  I  wanted  to  know." 

Again  Jack  bent  over  Garry,  his  heart  wrung  with 
pity  and  dismay.  He  was  still  there  when  the  door 
opened  softly  and  a  servant  entered,  tiptoed  to  where 
he  stood,  and  whispered  in  his  ear: 

"Mrs.  Minott  says,  sir,  that  Mr.  McGowan  and  an- 
other man  are  downstairs." 

The  contractor  was  standing  in  the  hall,  his  hat  still 
on  his  head.  The  other  man  Jack  recognized  as 
Murphy,  one  of  the  church  building  trustees.  That 
McGowan  was  in  an  ugly  mood  was  evident  from  the 
expression  on  his  face,  his  jaw  setting  tighter  when  he 
discovered  that  Jack  and  not  Garry  was  coming  down 
to  meet  him;  Jack  having  been  associated  with  Mac- 
Farlane,  who  had  "robbed  him  of  damages"  to  the 
"fill." 

"I  came  to  see  Mr.  Minott,"  McGowan  blurted  out 
before  Jack's  feet  had  touched  the  bottom  step  of  the 
stairs.  "I  hear  he's  in — come  home  at  dinner  time." 

Jack  continued  his  advance  without  answering  until 
390 


PETER 

he  had  reached  their  side.  Then  with  a  "  Good -even- 
ing, gentlemen,"  he  said  in  a  perfectly  even  voice: 

"Mr.  Minott  is  ill  and  can  see  no  one.  I  have  just 
left  the  doctor  sitting  beside  his  bed.  If  there  is  any- 
thing I  can  do  for  either  of  you  I  will  do  it  with  pleasure." 

McGowan  shoved  his  hat  back  on  his  forehead  as 
if  to  give  himself  more  air. 

"That  kind  of  guff  won't  go  with  me  no  longer,"  he 
snarled,  his  face  growing  redder  every  instant.  "This 
ill  business  is  played  out.  He  promised  me  three  nights 
ago  he'd  make  out  a  certificate  next  day — you  heard 
him  say  it — and  I  waited  for  him  all  the  morning  and 
he  never  showed  up.  And  then  he  sneaks  off  to  New 
York  at  daylight  and  stays  away  for  two  nights  more, 
and  then  sneaks  home  again  in  the  middle  of  the  day 
when  you  don't  expect  him,  and  goes  to  bed  and  sends 
for  the  doctor.  How  many  kinds  of  a  damned  fool 
does  he  take  me  for  ?  That  work's  been  finished  three 
weeks  yesterday;  the  money  is  all  in  the  bank  to  pay 
for  it  just  as  soon  as  he  signs  the  check,  and  he  don't 
sign  it,  and  ye  can't  get  him  to  sign  it.  Ain't  that  so, 
Jim  Murphy?" 

Murphy  nodded,  and  McGowan  blazed  on:  "If  you 
want  to  know  what  I  think  about  it — there's  something 
crooked  about  the  whole  business,  and  it  gets  crookeder 
all  the  time.  He's  drunk,  if  he's  anything — boiling 
drunk  and— 

Jack  laid  the  full  weight  of  his  hand  on  the  speaker's 
shoulder: 

"Stop  short  off  where  you  are,  Mr.  McGowan." 
391 


PETER 

The  voice  came  as  if  through  tightly  clenched  teeth. 
"If  you  have  any  business  that  I  can  attend  to  I  am 
here  to  do  it,  but  you  can't  remain  here  and  abuse  Mr. 
Minott.  My  purpose  in  coming  downstairs  was  to 
help  you  if  I  could,  but  you  must  act  like  a  man,  not 
like  a  ruffian." 

Murphy  stepped  quickly  between  the  two  men: 

"Go  easy,  Mac,"  he  cried  in  a  conciliatory  tone. 
"If  the  doctor's  with  him  ye  can't  see  him.  Hear 
what  Mr.  Breen  has  to  say;  ye  got  to  wait  anyhow. 
Of  course,  Mr.  Breen,  Mr.  McGowan  is  het  up  be- 
cause the  men  is  gettin'  ugly,  and  he  ain't  got  money 
enough  for  his  next  pay-roll,  and  the  last  one  ain't  all 
paid  yit." 

McGowan  again  shifted  his  hat — this  time  he  canted 
it  on  one  side.  His  companion's  warning  had  had  its 
effect,  for  his  voice  was  now  pitched  in  a  lower  key. 

"There  ain't  no  use  talking  pay-roll  to  Mr.  Breen, 
Jim,"  he  growled.  "He  knows  what  it  is;  he  gits  up 
agin'  it  once  in  a  while  himself.  If  he'll  tell  me 
just  when  I'm  going  to  get  my  money  I'll  wait  like  any 
decent  man  would  wait,  but  I  want  to  know,  and  I 
want  to  know  now." 

At  that  instant  the  door  of  the  sitting-room  opened, 
and  Corinne,  shrinking  as  one  in  mortal  fright,  glided 
out  and  made  a  hurried  escape  upstairs.  Murphy 
sagged  back  against  the  wall  and  waited  respectfully 
for  her  to  disappear.  McGowan  did  not  alter  his 
position  nor  did  he  remove  his  hat,  though  he  waited 
until  she  had  reached  the  landing  before  speaking  again. 

392 


PETER 

"And  now,  what  are  you  going  to  do,  Mr.  Breen?" 
he  demanded  in  threatening  tones. 

"Nothing,"  said  Jack  in  his  same  even  voice,  his 
eyes  never  moving  from  the  contractor's.  "Nothing, 
until  you  get  into  a  different  frame  of  mind."  Then 
he  turned  to  Murphy:  "When  Mr.  McGowan  removes 
his  hat,  Mr.  Murphy,  and  shows  some  sign  of  being  a 
gentleman  I  will  take  you  both  into  the  next  room  and 
talk  this  matter  over." 

McGowan  flushed  scarlet  and  jerked  his  hat  from 
his  head. 

"Well  she  come  on  me  sudden  like  and  I  didn't  see 
her  till  she'd  got  by.  Of  course,  if  you've  got  any- 
thing to  say,  I'm  here  to  listen.  Where'll  we  go?" 

Jack  turned  and  led  the  way  into  the  sitting-room, 
where  he  motioned  them  both  to  seats. 

"  And  now  what  is  the  exact  amount  of  your  voucher  ?  " 
he  asked,  when  he  had  drawn  up  a  chair  and  sat  facing 
them. 

McGowan  fumbled  in  his  inside  pocket  and  drew 
forth  a  slip  of  paper. 

"A  little  short  of  ten  thousand  dollars,"  he  answered 
in  a  business-like  tone  of  voice.  "There's  the  figures," 
and  he  handed  the  slip  to  Jack. 

"When  is  this  payment  to  be  made?"  continued 
Jack,  glancing  at  the  slip. 

"Why,  when  the  money  is  due,  of  course,"  he  cried 
in  a  louder  key.  "Here's  the  contract — see — read  it; 
then  you'll  know." 

Jack  ran  his  eye  over  the  document  until  it  fell  on 
393 


PETER 

the  payment  clause.     This  he  read   twice,   weighing 
each  word. 

"It  says  at  the  monthly  meeting  of  the  Board  of 
Trustees,  does  it  not?"  he  answered,  smothering  all 
trace  of  the  relief  the  words  brought  him. 

McGowan  changed  color.  "Well,  yes— but  that 
ain't  the  way  the  payments  has  always  been  made,"  he 
stammered  out. 

"And  if  I  am  right,  the  meeting  takes  place  on 
Monday  next?"  continued  Jack  in  a  decided  tone,  not 
noticing  the  interruption. 

"Yes,  I  suppose  so." 

"Well,  then,  Monday  night,  Mr.  McGowan,  either 
Mr.  Minott  or  I  will  be  on  hand.  You  must  excuse 
me  now.  Mrs.  Minott  wants  me,  I  think,"  and  he 
handed  McGowan  the  contract  and  wralked  toward 
the  door,  where  he  stood  listening.  Something  was 
happening  upstairs. 

McGowan  and  his  friend  looked  at  each  other  in 
silence.  The  commotion  overhead  only  added  to  their 
discomfiture. 

"Well,  what  do  you  think,  Jim?"  McGowan  said  at 
last  in  a  subdued,  baffled  voice. 

"Well,  there  ain't  no  use  thinking  Mac.     If  it's  writ 
that  way,  it's  writ  that  way;  that's  all  there  is  to  it — 
and  the  two  joined  Jack  who  had  stepped  into  the 
hall,  his  eyes  up  the  stairway  as  if  he  was  listening  in- 
tensely. 

"Then  you  say,  Mr.  Breen,  that  Mr.  Minott  will 
meet  us  at  the  Board  meeting  on  Monday?" 

394 


PETER 

Jack  was  about  to  reply  when  he  caught  sight  of  the 
doctor,  his  hand  sliding  rapidly  down  the  stair-rail  as 
he  approached. 

McGowan,  fearing  to  be  interrupted,  repeated  his 
question  in  a  louder  voice: 

"Then  you  say  I'll  see  Mr.  Minott  on  Monday?" 

The  doctor  crossed  to  Jack's  side.  He  was  breathing 
heavily,  his  lips  quivering;  he  looked  like  a  man  who 
had  received  some  sudden  shock. 

"Go  up  to  Mrs.  Minott,"  he  gasped.  "It's  all  over, 
Breen.  He's  dying.  He  took  the  whole  bottle." 

At  this  instant  an  agonizing  shriek  cut  the  air.  It 
was  the  voice  of  Corinne. 


395 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

No  one  suspected  that  the  young  architect  had  killed 
himself.  Garry  was  known  to  have  suffered  from  in- 
somnia, and  was  supposed  to  have  taken  an  overdose 
of  chloral.  The  doctor  so  decided,  and  the  doctor's 
word  was  law  in  such  matters,  and  so  there  was  no 
coroner's  inquest.  Then  again,  it  was  also  known  that 
he  was  doing  a  prosperous  business  with  several  build- 
ings still  in  course  of  construction,  and  that  his  wife's 
stepfather  was  a  prominent  banker. 

McGowan  and  his  friends  were  stupefied.  One  hope 
was  left,  and  that  was  Jack's  promise  that  either  he  or 
Garry  would  be  at  the  trustees'  meeting  on  Monday 
night. 

Jack  had  not  forgotten.  Indeed  nothing  else  filled 
his  mind.  There  were  still  three  days  in  which  to 
work.  The  shock  of  his  friend's  death,  tremendous  as 
it  was,  had  only  roused  him  to  a  greater  need  of  action. 
The  funeral  was  to  take  place  on  Sunday,  but  he  had 
Saturday  and  Monday  left.  What  he  intended  to  do 
for  Garry  and  his  career  he  must  now  do  for  Garry's 
family  and  Garry's  reputation.  The  obligation  had 
really  increased,  because  Garry  could  no  longer  fight 
his  battles  himself;  nor  was  there  a  moment  to  lose. 

396 


PETER 

The  slightest  spark  of  suspicion  would  kindle  a  flame 
of  inquiry,  and  the  roar  of  an  investigation  would  fol- 
low. Me  Go  wan  had  already  voiced  his  own  distrust 
of  Garry's  methods.  No  matter  what  the  cost,  this 
money  must  be  found  before  Monday  night. 

The  secret  of  both  the  suicide  and  the  defalcation  was 
carefully  guarded  from  MacFarlane,  who,  with  his 
daughter,  went  at  once  to  Minott's  house,  proffering 
his  services  to  the  stricken  widow,  but  nothing  was 
withheld  from  Ruth.  The  serious  financial  obliga- 
tions which  Jack  was  about  to  undertake  would  inevit- 
ably affect  their  two  lives;  greater,  therefore,  than  the 
loyalty  he  owed  to  the  memory  of  his  dead  friend,  was 
the  loyalty  which  he  owed  to  the  woman  who  was  to 
be  his  wife,  and  from  whom  he  had  promised  to  hide 
no  secrets.  Though  he  felt  sure  what  her  answer 
would  be,  his  heart  gave  a  great  bound  of  relief  when 
she  answered  impulsively,  without  a  thought  for  her- 
self or  their  future: 

"You  are  right,  dearest.  These  things  make  me 
love  you  more.  You  are  so  splendid,  Jack.  And  you 
never  disappoint  me.  It  is  Garry's  poor  little  boy 
who  must  be  protected.  Everybody  would  pity  the 
wife,  but  nobody  would  pity  the  child.  He  will  always 
be  pointed  at  when  he  grows  up.  Dear  little  tot!  He 
lay  in  my  arms  so  sweet  and  fresh  this  morning,  and 
put  his  baby  hands  upon  my  cheek,  and  looked  so 
appealingly  into  my  face.  Oh,  Jack,  we  must  help 
him.  He  has  done  nothing." 

They  were  sitting  together  as  she  spoke,  her  head  on 
397 


PETER 

his  shoulder,  her  fingers  held  tight  in  his  strong,  brown 
hand.  She  could  get  closer  to  him  in  this  position, 
she  always  told  him :  these  hands  and  cheeks  were  the 
poles  of  a  battery  between  which  flowed  and  flashed 
the  vitality  of  two  sound  bodies,  and  through  which 
quivered  the  ecstasy  of  two  souls. 

Suddenly  the  thought  of  Garry  and  what  he  had 
been,  in  the  days  of  his  brilliancy,  and  of  what  he  had 
done  to  crush  the  lives  about  him  came  to  her.  Could 
she  not  find  some  excuse  for  him,  something  which 
she  might  use  as  her  own  silent  defence  of  him  in  the 
years  that  were  to  come  ? 

"Do  you  think  Garry  was  out  of  his  mind,  Jack? 
He's  been  so  depressed  lately?"  she  asked,  all  her 
sympathy  in  her  voice. 

"No,  my  blessed,  I  don't  think  so.  Everybody  is 
more  or  less  insane  who  succumbs  to  a  crisis.  Garry 
believed  absolutely  in  himself  and  his  luck,  and  when 
the  cards  went  against  him  he  collapsed.  And  yet 
he  was  no  more  a  criminal  at  heart  than  I  am.  But  that 
is  all  over  now.  He  has  his  punishment,  poor  boy,  and 
it  is  awful  when  you  think  of  it.  How  he  could  bring 
himself  to  prove  false  to  his  trust  is  the  worst  thing 
about  it.  This  is  a  queer  world,  my  darling,  in  which 
we  live.  I  never  knew  much  about  it  until  lately.  It 
is  not  so  at  home,  or  was  not  when  I  was  a  boy — but 
here  you  can  take  away  a  man's  character,  rob  him  of 
his  home,  corrupt  his  children.  You  can  break  your 
wife's  heart,  be  cruel,  revengeful;  you  can  lie  and  be 
tricky,  and  no  law  can  touch  you — in  fact,  you  are  still 

398 


PETER 

a  respectable  citizen.  But  if  you  take  a  dollar-bill  out 
of  another  man's  cash  drawer,  you  are  sent  to  jail  and 
branded  as  a  thief.  And  it  is  right — looked  at  from 
one  standpoint — the  protection  of  society.  It  is  the 
absence  of  all  mercy  in  the  enforcement  of  the  law 
that  angers  me." 

Ruth  moved  her  head  and  nestled  the  closer.  How 
had  she  lived  all  the  years  of  her  life,  she  thought  to 
herself,  without  this  shoulder  to  lean  on  and  this  hand 
to  guide  her?  She  made  no  answer.  She  had  never 
thought  about  these  things  in  that  way  before,  but  she 
would  now.  It  was  so  restful  and  so  blissful  just  to 
have  him  lead  her,  he  who  was  so  strong  and  self- 
reliant,  and  whose  vision  was  so  clear,  and  who  never 
dwelt  upon  the  little  issues.  And  it  was  such  a  relief 
to  reach  up  her  arms  and  kiss  him  and  say,  "Yes, 
blessed/'  and  to  feel  herself  safe  in  his  hands.  She 
had  never  been  able  to  do  that  with  her  father.  He 
had  always  leaned  on  her  when  schemes  of  economies 
were  to  be  thought  out,  or  details  of  their  daily  lives 
planned.  All  this  was  changed  now.  She  had  found 
Jack's  heart  wide  open  and  had  slipped  inside,  his 
strong  will  henceforth  to  be  hers. 

Still  cuddling  close,  her  head  on  his  shoulder,  her 
heart  going  out  to  him  as  she  thought  of  the  next 
morning  and  the  task  before  him,  she  talked  of  their 
coming  move  to  the  mountains,  and  of  the  log-cabin 
for  which  Jack  had  already  given  orders;  of  the  ap- 
proaching autumn  and  winter  and  what  they  would 
make  of  it,  and  of  dear  daddy's  plans  and  profits,  and 

399 


PETER 

of  how  long  they  must  wait  before  a  larger  log-cabin — 
one  big  enough  for  two — would  be  theirs  for  life — any 
arid  every  topic  which  she  thought  would  divert  his 
mind — but  Garry's  ghost  would  not  down. 

"And  what  are  you  going  to  do  first,  my  darling  ?'r 
she  asked  at  last,  finding  that  Jack  answered  only  in 
monosyllables  or  remained  silent  altogether. 

"I  am  going  to  see  Uncle  Arthur  in  the  morning," 
he  answered  quickly,  uncovering  his  brooding  thoughts. 
"It  won't  do  any  good,  perhaps,  but  I  will  try  it.  I 
have  never  asked  him  for  a  cent  for  myself,  and  I  won't 
now.  He  may  help  Corinne  this  time,  now  that  Garry 
is  dead.  There  must  be  some  outside  money  due 
Garry  that  he  has  not  been  able  to  collect — commis- 
sions on  unfinished  work.  This  can  be  turned  in  when 
it  is  due.  Then  I  am  going  to  Uncle  Peter,  and  after 
that  to  some  of  the  people  we  trade  with." 

Breen  was  standing  by  the  ticker  when  Jack  entered. 
It  was  a  busy  day  in  the  Street  and  values  were  going 
up  by  leaps  and  bounds.  The  broker  was  not  in  a 
good  humor;  many  of  his  customers  were  short  of  the 
market. 

He  followed  Jack  into  his  private  office  and  faced 
him. 

"Funeral's  at  one  o'clock  Sunday,  I  see,"  he  said  in 
a  sharp  voice,  as  if  he  resented  the  incident.  "Your 
aunt  and  I  will  be  out  on  the  noon  train.  She  got  back 
this  morning,  pretty  well  bunged  up.  Killed  himself, 
didn't  he?" 

400 


PETER 

"That  is  not  the  doctor's  opinion,  sir,  and  he  was 
with  him  when  he  died." 

"Well,  it  looks  that  way  to  me.  He's  busted — and 
all  balled  up  in  the  Street.  If  you  know  anybody  who 
will  take  the  lease  off  Corinne's  hands,  let  me  know. 
She  and  the  baby  are  coming  to  live  with  us." 

Jack  replied  that  he  would  make  it  his  business  to 
do  so,  with  pleasure,  and  after  giving  his  uncle  the 
details  of  Garry's  death  he  finally  arrived  at  the  tangled 
condition  of  his  affairs. 

Breen  promptly  interrupted  him. 

"Yes,  so  Corinne  told  me.  She  was  in  here  one  day 
last  week  and  wanted  to  borrow  ten  thousand  dollars. 
I  told  her  it  didn't  grow  on  trees.  Suppose  I  had  given 
it  to  her?  Where  would  it  be  now.  Might  as  well 
have  thrown  it  in  the  waste-basket.  So  I  shut  down 
on  the  whole  business — had  to." 

Jack  waited  until  his  uncle  had  relieved  his  mind. 
The  state  of  the  market  had  something  to  do  with  his 
merciless  point  of  view;  increasing  irritability,  due  to 
loss  of  sleep,  and  his  habits  had  more.  The  outburst 
over,  Jack  said  in  a  calm  direct  voice,  watching  the  effect 
of  the  words  as  a  gunner  watches  a  shell  from  his  gun : 

"Will  you  lend  it  to  me,  sir?" 

Arthur  was  pacing  his  private  office,  casting  about  in 
his  mind  how  to  terminate  the  interview,  when  Jack's 
shot  overhauled  him.  Garry's  sudden  death  had  al- 
ready led  him  to  waste  a  few  more  minutes  of  his  time 
than  he  was  accustomed  to  on  a  morning  like  this, 
unless  there  was  business  in  it. 

401 


PETER 

He  turned  sharply,  looked  at  Jack  for  an  instant,  and 
dropped  into  the  revolving  chair  fronting  his  desk. 

Then  he  said  in  a  tone  of  undisguised  surprise: 

"Lend  you  ten  thousand  dollars!     What  for?" 

"To  clear  up  some  matters  of  Garry's  at  Corkles- 
ville.  The  Warehouse  matter  has  been  closed  out,  so 
Corinne  tells  me." 

"Oh,  that's  it,  is  it?  I  thought  you  wanted  it  for 
yourself.  Who  signs  for  it?" 

"I  do." 

"On  what  collateral?" 

"My  word." 

Breen  leaned  back  in  his  chair.  The  unsophisticated 
innocence  of  this  boy  from  the  country  would  be  amus- 
ing if  it  were  not  so  stupid. 

"What  are  you  earning,  Jack?"  he  said  at  last,  with 
a  half-derisive,  half-humorous  expression  on  his  face. 

"A  thousand  dollars  a  year."  Jack  had  never  taken 
his  eyes  from  his  uncle's  face,  nor  had  he  moved  a 
muscle  of  his  body. 

"And  it  would  take  you  ten  years  to  pay  it  if  you 
dumped  it  all  in?" 

"Yes." 

"Got  anything  else  to  offer?"  This  came  in  a  less 
supercilious  tone.  The  calm,  direct  manner  of  the 
young  man  had  begun  to  have  its  effect. 

"Nothing  but  my  ore  property." 

"That's  good  for  nothing.  I  made  a  mistake  when 
I  wanted  you  to  put  it  in  here.  Glad  you  didn't  take 
me  up." 

402 


PETER 

"So  am  I.  My  own  investigation  showed  the  same 
thing." 

"And  the  ore's  of  poor  quality/'  continued  Breen  in 
a  decided  tone. 

"Very  poor  quality,  what  I  saw  of  it,"  rejoined  Jack. 

"Well,  we  will  check  that  off.  MacFarlane  got  any- 
thing he  could  turn  in  ? " 

"No — and  I  wouldn't  ask  him." 

"And  you  mean  to  tell  me,  Jack,  that  you  are  going 
broke  yourself  to  help  a  dead  man  pay  his  debts  ?" 

"If  you  choose  to  put  it  that  way." 

"Put  it  that  way  ?  Why,  what  other  way  is  there  to 
put  it  ?  You'll  excuse  me,  Jack — but  you  always  were 
a  fool  when  your  damned  idiotic  notions  of  what  is 
right  and  wrong  got  into  your  head — and  you'll  never 
get  over  it.  You  might  have  had  an  interest  in  my 
business  by  this  time,  and  be  able  to  write  your  check 
in  four  figures;  and  yet  here  you  are  cooped  up  in  a 
Jersey  village,  living  at  a  roadside  tavern,  and  getting  a 
thousand  dollars  a  year.  That's  what  your  father  did 
before  you;  wen.t  round  paying  everybody's  debts; 
never  could  teach  him  anything;  died  poor,  just  as  I 
told  him  he  would." 

Jack  had  to  hold  on  to  his  chair  to  keep  his  mouth 
closed.  His  father's  memory  was  dangerous  ground 
for  any  man  to  tread  on — even  his  father's  brother; 
but  the  stake  for  which  he  was  playing  was  too  great  to 
be  risked  by  his  own  anger. 

"No,  Jack,"  Breen  continued,  gathering  up  a  mass 
of  letters  and  jamming  them  into  a  pigeon-hole  in  front 

403 


PETER 

of  him,  as  if  the  whole  matter  was  set  forth  in  their 
pages  and  he  was  through  with  it  forever.  "No — I 
guess  I'll  pass  on  that  ten  thousand-dollar  loan.  I  am 
sorry,  but  A.  B.  &  Co,  haven't  any  shekels  for  that 
kind  of  tommy-rot.  As  to  your  helping  Minott,  what 
I've  got  to  say  to  you  is  just  this:  let  the  other  fellow 
walk — the  fellow  Garry  owes  money  to — but  don't  you 
butt  in.  They'll  only  laugh  at  you.  Now  you  will 
have  to  excuse  me — the  market's  kiting,  and  I've  got 
to  watch  it.  Give  my  love  to  Ruth.  Your  aunt  and  I 
will  be  out  on  the  noon  train  for  the  funeral.  Good- 

by." 

It  was  what  he  had  expected.  He  would,  perhaps, 
have  stood  a  better  chance  if  he  had  read  him  Peter's 
encouraging  letter  of  the  director's  opinion  of  his 
Cumberland  property,  and  he  might  also  have  brought 
him  up  standing  (and  gone  away  with  the  check  in  his 
pocket)  if  he  had  told  him  that  the  money  was  to  save 
his  own  wife's  daughter  and  grandchild  from  disgrace 
—but  that  secret  was  not  his.  Only  as  a  last,  desperate 
resource  would  he  lay  that  fact  bare  to  a  man  like 
Arthur  Breen,  and  perhaps  not  even  then.  John 
Breen's  word  was,  or  ought  to  be,  sacred  enough  on 
which  to  borrow  ten  thousand  dollars  or  any  other 
sum.  That  meant  a  mortgage  on  his  life  until  every 
cent  was  paid. 

Do  not  smile,  dear  reader.  He  is  only  learning 
his  first  lesson  in  modern  finance.  All  young  men 
' 'raised"  as  Jack  had  been — and  the  Scribe  is  one  of 
them — would  have  been  of  the  same  mind  at  his  age. 

404 


PETER 

In  a  great  city,  when  your  tea-kettle  starts  to  leaking, 
you  never  borrow  a  whole  one  from  your  neighbor; 
you  send  to  the  shop  at  the  corner  and  buy  another. 
In  the  country — Jack's  country,  I  mean — miles  from 
a  store,  you  borrow  your  neighbor's,  who  promptly 
borrows  your  saucepan  in  return.  And  it  was  so  in 
larger  matters:  the  old  Chippendale  desk  with  its 
secret  drawer  was  often  the  bank — the  only  one,  perhaps, 
in  a  week's  journey.  It  is  astonishing  in  these  days  to 
think  how  many  dingy,  tattered  or  torn  bank-notes 
were  fished  out  of  these  same  receptacles  and  handed 
over  to  a  neighbor  with  the  customary — "With  the 
greatest  pleasure,  my  dear  sir.  When  you  can  sell  your 
corn  or  hogs,  or  that  mortgage  is  paid  off,  you  can 
return  it."  A  man  who  was  able  to  lend,  and  who  still 
refused  to  lend,  to  a  friend  in  his  adversity,  was  a 
pariah.  He  had  committed  the  unpardonable  sin.  And 
the  last  drop  of  the  best  Madeira  went  the  same  way 
and  with  equal  graciousness ! 

Peter,  at  Jack's  knock,  opened  the  door  himself. 
Isaac  Cohen  had  just  come  in  to  show  him  a  new  book, 
and  Peter  supposed  some  one  from  the  shop  below 
had  sent  upstairs  for  him. 

"Oh!  it's  you,  my  boy!"  Peter  cried  in  his  hearty 
way,  his  arms  around  Jack's  shoulders  as  he  drew  him 
inside  the  room.  Then  something  in  the  boy's  face 
checked  him,  bringing  to  mind  the  tragedy.  "Yes,  I 
read  it  all  in  the  papers,"  he  exclaimed  in  a  sympathetic 
voice.  "Terrible,  isn't  it!  Poor  Minott.  How  are 

405 


PETER 

his  wife  and  the  poor  little  baby — and  dear  Ruth.  The 
funeral  is  to-morrow  I  see  by  the  papers.  Yes,  of 
course  I'm  going/'  As  he  spoke  he  turned  his  head 
and  scanned  Jack  closely. 

"Are  you  ill,  my  boy  ?"  he  asked  in  an  anxious  tone, 
leading  him  to  a  seat  on  the  sofa.  "You  look  terribly 
worn." 

"We  all  have  our  troubles,  Uncle  Peter/'  Jack  re- 
plied with  a  glance  at  Cohen,  who  had  risen  from  his 
chair  to  shake  his  hand. 

"Yes — but  not  you.  Out  with  it!  Isaac  doesn't 
count.  Anything  you  can  tell  me  you  can  tell  him. 
What's  the  matter?— is  it  Ruth?" 

Jack's  face  cleared.  "  No,  she  is  lovely,  and  sent  you 
her  dearest  love." 

"Then  it's  your  work  up  in  the  valley?" 

"No — we  begin  in  a  month.  Everything's  ready — 
or  will  be." 

"Oh!  I  see,  it's  the  loss  of  Minott.  Oh,  yes,  I  under- 
stand it  all  now.  Forgive  me,  Jack.  I  did  not  re- 
member how  intimate  you  and  he  were  once.  Yes, 
it  is  a  dreadful  thing  to  lose  a  friend.  Poor  boy!" 

"No— it's  not  that  altogether,  Uncle  Peter." 

He  could  not  tell  him.  The  dear  old  gentleman  was 
ignorant  of  everything  regarding  Garry  and  his  affairs, 
except  that  he  was  a  brilliant  young  architect,  with  a 
dashing  way  about  him,  of  whom  Morris  was  proud. 
This  image  he  could  not  and  would  not  destroy.  And 
yet  something  must  be  done  to  switch  Peter  from  the 
main  subject — at  least  until  Cohen  should  leave. 

406 


PETER 

"The  fact  is  I  have  just  had  an  interview  with  Uncle 
Arthur,  and  he  has  rather  hurt  my  feelings,"  Jack  con- 
tinued in  explanation,  a  forced  smile  on  his  face.  "I 
wanted  to  borrow  a  little  money.  All  I  had  to  offer 
as  security  was  my  word." 

Peter  immediately  became  interested.  Nothing  de- 
lighted him  so  much  as  to  talk  over  Jack's  affairs.  Was 
he  not  a  silent  partner  in  the  concern  ? 

"You  wanted  it,  of  course,  to  help  out  on  the  new 
work,"  he  rejoined.  "Yes,  it  always  takes  money  in 
the  beginning.  And  what  did  the  old  fox  say?" 

Jack  smiled  meaningly.  "  He  said  that  what  I  called 
'my  word5  wasn't  a  collateral.  Wanted  something 
better.  So  I've  got  to  hunt  for  it  somewhere  else." 

"And  he  wouldn't  give  it  to  you?"  cried  Peter  in- 
dignantly. "No,  of  course  not!  A  man's  word 
doesn't  count  with  these  pickers  and  stealers.  Half — 
three-quarters — of  the  business  of  the  globe  is  done  on 
a  man's  word.  He  writes  it  on  the  bottom  or  on  the 
back  of  a  slip  of  paper  small  enough  to  light  a  cigar 
with — but  it's  only  his  word  that  counts.  In  these 
mouse-traps,  however,  these  cracks  in  the  wall,  they 
want  something  they  can  get  rid  of  the  moment  some- 
body else  says  it  is  not  worth  what  they  loaned  on  it; 
or  they  want  a  bond  with  the  Government  behind  it. 
Oh,  I  know  them!" 

Cohen  laughed — a  dry  laugh — in  compliment  to 
Peter's  way  of  putting  it — but  there  was  no  ring  of 
humor  in  it.  He  had  been  reading  Jack's  mind. 
There  was  something  behind  the  forced  smile  that 

407 


PETER 

Peter  had  missed — something  deeper  than  the  lines  of 
anxiety  and  the  haunted  look  in  the  eyes.  This  was 
a  different  lad  from  the  one  with  whom  he  had  spent 
so  pleasant  an  evening  some  weeks  before.  What  had 
caused  the  change? 

"  Don't  you  abuse  them,  Mr.  Grayson — these  pawn- 
brokers," he  said  in  his  slow,  measured  way.  "If 
every  man  was  a  Turk  we  could  take  his  word,  but 
when  they  are  Jews  and  Christians  and  such  other 
unreliable  people,  of  course  they  want  something  for 
their  ducats.  It's  the  same  old  pound  of  flesh.  Very 
respectable  firm  this,  Mr.  Arthur  Breen  &  Co. — very 
respectable  people.  I  used  to  press  off  the  elder  gen- 
tleman's coat — he  had  only  two — one  of  them  I  made 
myself  when  he  first  came  to  New  York — but  he  has 
forgotten  all  about  it  now,"  and  the  little  tailor  purred 
softly. 

"If  you  had  pressed  out  his  morals,  Isaac,  it  would 
have  helped  some." 

"They  didn't  need  it.  He  was  a  very  quiet  young 
man  and  very  polite;  not  so  fat,  or  so  red  or  so  rich,  as 
he  is  now.  I  saw  him  the  other  day  in  our  bank.  You 
see,"  and  he  winked  slyly  at  Jack,  "these  grand  people 
must  borrow  sometimes,  like  the  rest  of  us;  but  he  never 
remembers  me  any  more."  Isaac  paused  for  a  moment 
as  if  the  reminiscence  had  recalled  some  amusing  inci- 
dent. When  he  continued  his  face  had  a  broad  smile — 
"and  I  must  say,  too,  that  he  always  paid  his  bills. 
Once,  when  he  was  afraid  he  could  not  pay,  he  wanted 
to  bring  the  coat  back,  but  I  wouldnH  let  him.  Oh,  yes, 

408 


PETER 

a  very  nice  young  man,  Mr.  Arthur  Breen,"  and  the 
tailor's  plump  body  shook  with  suppressed  laughter. 

"You  know,  of  course,  that  he  is  this  young  man's 
uncle,"  said  Peter,  laying  his  hand  affectionately  on 
Jack's  shoulder. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  know  about  it.  I  saw  the  likeness  that 
first  day  you  came  in,"  he  continued,  nodding  to  Jack. 
"It  was  one  of  the  times  when  your  sister,  the  mag- 
nificent Miss  Grayson  was  here,  Mr.  Gray  son."  Isaac 
always  called  her  so,  a  merry  twinkle  in  his  eye  when 
he  said  it,  but  with  a  face  and  voice  showing  nothing 
but  the  deepest  respect;  at  which  Peter  would  laugh  a 
gentle  laugh  in  apology  for  his  sister's  peculiarities,  a 
dislike  of  little  tailors  being  one  of  them — this  little 
tailor  especially. 

"And  now,  Mr.  Breen,  I  hope  you  will  have  better 
luck,"  Isaac  said,  rising  from  his  chair  and  holding  out 
his  hand. 

"  But  you  are  not  going,  Isaac,"  protested  Peter. 

"Yes,  this  young  gentleman,  I  see,  is  in  a  good  deal 
of  trouble  and  I  cannot  help  him  much,  so  I  will  go 
away,"  and  with  a  wave  of  his  pudgy  hand  he  shut  the 
door  behind  him  and  trotted  downstairs  to  his  shop. 

Jack  waited  until  the  sound  of  his  retreating  foot- 
steps assured  the  Jew's  permanent  departure,  then  he 
turned  to  Peter. 

"  I  did  not  want  to  say  too  much  before  Mr.  Cohen, 
but  Uncle  Arthur's  refusal  has  upset  me  completely. 
I  could  not  have  believed  it  of  him.  You  must  help  me 
somehow,  Uncle  Peter.  I  don't  mean  with  your  own 

409 


PETER 

money;  you  have  not  got  it  to  spare — but  so  I  can  get 
it  somewhere.  I  must  have  it,  and  I  can't  rest  until  I 
do  get  it." 

"Why,  my  dear  boy!  Is  it  so  bad  as  that?  I 
thought  you  were  joking." 

"I  tried  to  joke  about  it  while  Mr.  Cohen  was  here, 
but  he  saw  through  it,  I  know,  from  the  way  he  spoke ; 
but  this  really  is  a  very  serious  matter;  more  serious 
than  anything  that  ever  happened  to  me." 

Peter  walked  to  the  sofa  and  sat  down.  Jack's  man- 
ner and  the  tone  of  his  voice  showed  that  a  grave 
calamity  had  overtaken  the  boy.  He  sat  looking  into 
Jack's  eyes. 

"Go  on,"  he  said,  his  heart  in  his  mouth. 

"I  must  have  ten  thousand  dollars.  How  and  where 
can  I  borrow  it?" 

Peter  started.  "Ten  thousand  dollars!"  he  repeated 
in  undisguised  surprise.  "Whew!  Why,  Jack,  that's 
a  very  large  sum  of  money  for  you  to  want.  WThy,  my 
dear  boy,  this  is — well — well!" 

"  It  is  not  for  me,  Uncle  Peter — or  I  would  not  come 
to  you  for  it." 

"For  whom  is  it,  then?"  Peter  asked,  in  a  tone  that 
showed  how  great  was  his  relief  now  that  Jack  was  not 
involved. 

"Don't  ask  me,  please." 

Peter  was  about  to  speak,  but  he  checked  himself. 
He  saw  it  all  now.  The  money  was  for  MacFarlane, 
and  the  boy  did  not  like  to  say  so.  He  had  heard 
something  of  Henry's  financial  difficulties  caused  by 

410 


PETER 

the  damage  to  the  "fill."  He  thought  that  this  had 
been  made  good;  he  saw  now  that  he  was  misinformed. 

"When  do  you  want  it,  Jack?"  he  resumed.  He 
was  willing  to  help,  no  matter  who  it  was  for. 

"Before  Monday  night." 

Peter  drew  out  his  watch  as  if  to  find  some  relief 
from  its  dial,  and  slipped  it  into  his  pocket  again.  It 
was  not  yet  three  o'clock  and  his  bank  was  still  open, 
but  it  did  not  contain  ten  thousand  dollars  or  any  other 
sum  that  he  could  draw  upon.  Besides,  neither  Jack, 
nor  MacFarlane,  nor  anybody  connected  with  Jack, 
had  an  account  at  the  Exeter.  The  discounting  of 
their  notes  was,  therefore,  out  of  the  question. 

"To-day  is  a  short  business  day,  Jack,  being  Satur- 
day," he  said  with  a  sigh;  "If  I  had  known  of  this 
before  I  might  have — and  yet  to  tell  you  the  simple 
truth,  my  boy,  I  don't  know  a  human  being  in  the 
world  who  would  lend  me  that  much  money,  or  whom 
I  could  ask  for  it." 

"I  thought  maybe  Mr.  Morris  might,  if  you  went  to 
him,  but  I  understand  he  is  out  of  town,"  returned 
Jack. 

"Yes,"  answered  Peter  in  a  perplexed  tone — "yes — 
Holker  has  gone  to  Chicago  and  won't  be  back  for  a 
week."  He,  too,  had  thought  of  Morris  and  the  in- 
stantaneous way  in  which  he  would  have  reached  for 
his  check-book. 

"And  you  must  have  it  by  Monday  night?"  Peter 
continued,  his  thoughts  bringing  into  review  one  after 
the  other  all  the  moneyed  men  he  knew.  "Well — well 

411 


PETER 

— that  is  a  very  snort  notice.     It  means  Monday  to 
hunt  in,  really — to-morrow  being  Sunday." 

He  leaned  back  and  sat  in  deep  thought,  Jack  watch- 
ing every  expression  that  crossed  his  face.  Perhaps 
Ruth  was  mixed  up  in  it  in  some  way.  Perhaps  their 
marriage  depended  upon  it — not  directly,  but  indirect- 
ly— making  a  long  postponement  inevitable.  Perhaps 
MacFarlane  had  some  old  score  to  settle.  This  con- 
tracting was  precarious  business.  Once  before  he  had 
known  Henry  to  be  in  just  such  straits.  Again  he  con- 
sulted his  watch. 

Then  a  new  and  cheering  thought  struck  him.  He 
rose  quickly  from  his  seat  on  the  sofa  and  crossed  the 
room  to  get  his  hat. 

"It  is  a  forlorn  hope,  Jack,  but  I'll  try  it.  Come 
back  here  in  an  hour — or  stay  here  and  wait." 

"No,  I'll  keep  moving,"  replied  Jack.  "I  have 
thought  of  some  supply  men  who  know  me;  our  ac- 
count is  considerable;  they  would  lend  it  to  Mr.  Mac- 
Farlane, but  that's  not  the  way  I  want  it.  I'll  see  them 
and  get  back  as  soon  as  I  can — perhaps  in  a  couple  of 
hours." 

"Then  make  it  eight  o'clock,  so  as  to  be  sure.  I 
have  thought  of  something  else.  Ten  thousand  dol- 
lars," he  kept  muttering  to  himself — "ten  thousand 
dollars" — as  he  put  on  his  hat  and  moved  to  the  door. 
There  he  stopped  and  faced  about — his  bushy  brows 
tightening  as  a  new  difficulty  confronted  him.  "Well, 
but  for  how  long?"  That  part  of  the  transaction  Jack 
had  forgotten  to  mention. 

412 


PETER 

"I  can't  tell;   maybe  a  year — maybe  more." 

Peter  advanced  a  step  as  if  to  return  to  the  room  and 
give  up  the  whole  business. 

"  But  Jack,  my  boy,  don't  you  see  how  impossible  a 
loan  of  that  kind  is?" 

Jack  stood  irresolute.  In  his  mad  desire  to  save 
Garry  he  had  not  considered  that  phase  of  the  matter. 

"Yes — but  I've  got  to  have  It"  he  cried  in  a  positive 
tone.  "You  would  feel  just  as  I  do,  if  you  knew  the 
circumstances." 

Peter  turned  without  a  word  and  opened  the  door 
leading  into  the  hall.  "Be  back  here  at  eight,"  was 
all  he  said  as  he  shut  the  door  behind  him  and  clat- 
tered down  the  uncarpeted  stairs. 

Shortly  before  the  appointed  hour  Jack  again 
mounted  the  three  flights  of  steps  to  Peter's  rooms. 
He  had  had  a  queer  experience — queer  for  him.  The 
senior  member  of  one  supply  firm  had  looked  at  him 
sharply,  and  had  then  said  with  a  contemptuous  smile, 
"Well,  we  are  looking  for  ten  thousand  dollars  our- 
selves, and  will  pay  a  commission  to  get  it."  Another 
had  replied  that  they  were  short,  or  would  be  glad  to 
oblige  him,  and  as  soon  as  Jack  left  the  office  had 
called  to  their  bookkeeper  to  "send  MacFarlane  his 
account,  and  say  we  have  some  heavy  payments  to 
meet,  and  will  he  oblige  us  with  a  check" — adding  to 
his  partner — "Something  rotten  in  Denmark,  or  that 
young  fellow  wouldn't  be  looking  around  for  a  wad 
as  big  as  that."  A  third  merchant  heard  him  out, 

413 


PETER 

and  with  some  feeling  in  his  voice  said:  "I'm  sorry  for 
you,  Breen" — Jack's  need  of  money  was  excuse  enough 
for  the  familiarity — "for  Mr.  MacFarlane  thinks  every- 
thing of  you;  he's  told  me  so  a  dozen  times — and  there 
isn't  any  finer  man  living  than  Henry  MacFarlane. 
But,  just  as  your  friend,  let  me  tell  you  to  stay  out  of 
the  Street;  it's  no  place  for  a  young  man  like  you.  No 
—I  don't  mean  any  offence.  If  I  didn't  believe  in  you 
myself,  I  wouldn't  say  it.  Take  my  advice  and  stay 
out." 

And  so  footsore  and  heartsore,  his  face  haggard  from 
hunger,  for  he  had  eaten  nothing  since  breakfast,  his 
purpose  misunderstood,  his  own  character  assailed,  his 
pride  humiliated,  and  with  courage  almost  gone,  he 
strode  into  Peter's  room  and  threw  himself  into  a 
chair. 

Peter  heard  his  step  and  entered  from  his  bedroom, 
where  he  had  finished  dressing  for  dinner.  The  old 
fellow  seemed  greatly  troubled.  One  glance  at  Jack's 
face  told  the  story  of  the  afternoon. 

"You  have  done  nothing,  Jack?"  he  asked  in  a 
despondent  tone. 

"No— have  you?" 

"Nothing.  Portman  has  gone  to  his  place  on  Long 
Island,  the  others  were  out.  Whom  did  you  see?" 

"Some  people  we  do  business  with;  some  of  them 
laughed  at  me;  some  gave  me  advice;  none  of  them 
had  any  money." 

"I  expected  it.  I  don't  think  you  are  quite  aware  of 
what  you  ask,  my  dear  boy." 

414 


PETER 

"Perhaps  I  am  not,  but  I  am  beginning  to  see.  It  is 
a  new  experience  for  me.  If  my  father  had  wanted  the 
money  for  the  same  purpose  for  which  I  want  this,  he 
would  not  have  had  to  drive  a  mile  from  his  house  be- 
fore he  would  have  had  it." 

"Your  father  lived  in  a  different  atmosphere,  my 
boy;  in  another  age,  really.  In  his  environment 
money  meant  the  education  of  children,  the  comfort  of 
women,  and  the  hospitalities  that  make  up  social  life." 

"Well,  is  not  that  true  now,  among  decent  people  ?" 
protested  Jack,  his  mind  going  back  to  some  homes 
he  remembered. 

"  No — not  generally — not  here  in  New  York.  Money 
here  means  the  right  to  exist  on  the  planet;  we  fight  for 
it  as  we  do  for  our  lives.  Your  own  need  of  this  ten 
thousand  dollars  proves  it.  The  men  I  tried  to  find 
this  afternoon  have  more  than  they  need  or  ever  will 
need;  that's  why  I  called  on  them.  If  I  lost  it,  it 
wouldn't  matter  to  them,  but  I  would  never  hear  the  last 
of  it  all  the  same,"  and  a  shudder  ran  through  him. 

Peter  did  not  tell  Jack  that  had  Portman  been  at 
home  and,  out  of  friendship  for  him,  had  agreed  to  his 
request,  he  would  have  required  the  old  fellow's  name 
on  a  demand  note  for  the  amount  of  the  loan;  and 
that  he  would  willingly  have  signed  it,  to  relieve  the 
boy's  mind  and  ward  off  the  calamity  that  threatened 
those  he  loved  and  those  who  loved  him — not  one  cent  of 
which,  the  Scribe  adds  in  all  positiveness,  would  the 
boy  have  taken  had  he  known  that  the  dear  fellow  had 
in  any  way  pledged  himself  for  its  return. 

415 


PETER 

For  some  minutes  Jack  sat  stretched  out  in  his 
chair,  his  body  aslant;  Peter  still  beside  him.  All  the 
events  of  the  day  and  night  passed  in  review  before 
him;  Garry's  face  and  heavy  breathing;  McGowan's 
visit  and  defiance;  Corinne's  agonized  shriek — even 
the  remembrance  made  him  creep — then  Ruth's  voice 
and  her  pleading  look:  "The  poor  little  boy,  Jack. 
He  has  done  no  wrong — all  his  life  he  must  be  pointed 
at." 

He  dragged  himself  to  his  feet. 

"I  will  go  back  to  Ruth  now,  Uncle  Peter.  Thank 
you  for  trying.  I  know  it  is  a  wild  goose  chase,  but  I 
must  keep  moving.  You  will  be  out  to-morrow;  we 
bury  poor  Garry  at  one  o'clock.  I  still  have  all  day 
Monday.  Good-night." 

"Come  out  and  dine  with  me,  my  boy — we  will  go 

"No,  Ruth  is  worrying.  I  will  get  something  to  eat 
when  I  get  home.  Good-night!" 


416 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

Jack  descended  Peter's  stairs  one  step  at  a  time. 
Each  seemed  to  plunge  him  the  deeper  into  some  pit 
of  despair.  Before  he  reached  the  bottom  he  began 
to  realize  the  futility  of  his  efforts.  He  began  to  realize, 
too,  that  both  he  and  Ruth  had  been  swept  off  their 
feet  by  their  emotions.  MacFarlane,  the  elder  Breen, 
and  now  Peter,  had  all  either  openly  condemned  his 
course  or  had  given  it  scant  encouragement.  There 
was  nothing  to  do  now  but  go  home  and  tell  Ruth. 
Then,  after  the  funeral  was  over,  he  would  have  an- 
other talk  with  MacFarlane. 

He  had  reached  the  cool  air  of  the  street,  and  stood 
hesitating  whether  to  cross  the  Square  on  his  way  to 
the  ferry,  or  to  turn  down  the  avenue,  when  the  door  of 
Isaac  Cohen's  shop  opened,  and  the  little  tailor  put 
out  his  head. 

"  I  have  been  waiting  for  you,"  he  said  in  a  measured 
voice.  "Come  inside." 

Jack  was  about  to  tell  him  that  he  must  catch  a 
train,  when  something  in  the  tailor's  manner  and  the 
earnestness  with  which  he  spoke,  made  the  young 
fellow  alter  his  mind  and  follow  him. 

The  little  man  led  the  way  through  the  now  darkened 
417 


PETER 

and  empty  shop,  lighted  by  one  gas  jet — past  the  long 
cutting  counter  flanked  by  shelves  bearing  rolls  of 
cloth  and  paper  patterns,  around  the  octagon  stove 
where  the  irons  were  still  warm,  and  through  the  small 
door  which  led  into  his  private  room.  There  he  turned 
up  a  reading  lamp,  its  light  softened  by  a  green  shade, 
and  motioning  Jack  to  a  seat,  said  abruptly,  but  po- 
litely— more  as  a  request  than  a  demand: 

"I  have  a  question  to  ask  you,  and  you  will  please 
tell  me  the  truth.  How  much  money  do  you  want,  and 
what  do  you  want  it  for?" 

Jack  bit  his  lip.  He  wanted  money,  and  he  wanted 
it  badly,  but  the  tailor  had  no  right  to  pry  into  his 
private  affairs — certainly  not  in  this  way. 

"Well,  that  was  something  I  was  talking  to  Uncle 
Peter  about,"  he  rejoined  stiffly.  "I  suppose  you  must 
have  overheard." 

"Yes,  I  did.  Go  on — how  much  money  do  you 
want,  and  what  do  you  want  it  for?" 

"  But,  Mr.  Cohen,  I  don't  think  I  ought  to  bother  you 
with  my  troubles.  They  wouldn't  interest  you." 

"Now,  my  dear  young  man,  you  will  please  not  mis- 
understand me.  You  are  very  intelligent,  and  you  are 
very  honest,  and  you  always  say  what  is  in  your 
heart;  I  have  heard  you  do  it  many  times.  Now  say 
it  to  me." 

There  was  no  mistaking  the  tailor's  earnestness.  It 
evidently  was  not  mere  curiosity  which  prompted  him. 
It  was  something  else.  Jack  wondered  vaguely  if  the 
Jew  wanted  to  turn  money-lender  at  a  big  percentage. 

418 


PETER 

"Why  do  you  want  to  know?"  he  asked;  more  to 
gain  time  to  fathom  his  purpose  than  with  any  in- 
tention of  giving  him  the  facts. 

Isaac  went  to  his  desk,  opened  with  great  delibera- 
tion an  ebony  box,  took  out  two  cigars,  offered  one  to 
Jack,  leaned  over  the  lamp  until  his  own  was  alight, 
and  took  the  chair  opposite  Jack's.  All  this  time  Jack 
sat  watching  him  as  a  child  does  a  necromancer,  won- 
dering what  he  meant  to  do  next. 

"Why  do  I  want  to  know,  Mr.  Breen ?  Well,  I  will 
tell  you.  I  have  loved  Mr.  Gray  son  for  a  great  many 
years.  When  he  goes  out  in  the  morning  he  always 
looks  through  the  glass  window  and  waves  his  hand. 
If  I  am  not  in  sight,  he  opens  the  door  and  calls  inside, 
'Ah,  good-morning,  Isaac/  At  night,  when  he  comes 
home,  he  waves  his  hand  again.  I  know  every  line  in 
his  face,  and  it  is  always  a  happy  face.  Once  or  twice 
a  week  he  comes  in  here,  and  we  talk.  That  is  his 
chair — the  one  you  are  sitting  in.  Once  or  twice  a 
week  I  go  up  and  sit  in  his  chair  and  talk.  In  all  the 
years  I  have  known  him  I  have  only  seen  him  troubled 
once  or  twice.  Then  I  asked  him  the  reason,  and  he 
told  me.  To-day  I  heard  you  speak  about  some 
money  you  wanted,  and  then  I  saw  that  something  had 
gone  wrong.  After  I  left  he  came  downstairs  and 
passed  my  window  and  did  not  look  in.  I  watched  him 
go  up  the  street,  he  walked  very  slow,  and  his  head  was 
down  on  his  chest.  I  did  not  like  it.  A  little  while  ago 
he  came  back;  I  went  out  to  meet  him.  I  said,  'Mr. 
Grayson,  what  troubles  you  ? '  And  he  said — '  Nothing, 

419 


PETER 

Isaac,  thank  you/  and  went  upstairs.  That  is  the  first 
time  in  all  the  years  I  know  him  that  he  answered 
me  like  that.  So  now  I  ask  you  once  more — how 
much  money  do  you  want,  and  what  do  you  want 
it  for?  When  I  know  this,  then  I  will  know  what 
troubles  Mr.  Grayson.  There  is  always  a  woman  or  a 
sum  of  money  at  the  bottom  of  every  complication. 
Mr.  Grayson  never  worries  over  either.  I  do  not  be- 
lieve you  do,  but  I  have  had  many  surprises  in  my 
life." 

Jack  had  heard  him  through  without  interruption. 
Most  of  it — especially  Cohen's  affection  for  Peter — he 
had  known  before.  It  was  the  last  statement  that 
roused  him. 

"Well,  if  you  must  know,  Mr.  Cohen — it  is  not  for 
myself,  but  for  a  friend." 

The  Jew  smiled.  He  saw  that  the  young  man  had 
told  the  truth.  Peter's  confidence  in  the  boy,  then, 
need  not  be  shaken. 

"And  how  much  money  do  you  need  for  your 
friend  ? "  His  eyes  were  still  reading  Jack. 

"Well,  a  very  large  sum."  Jack  did  not  like  the 
cross-examination,  but  somehow  he  could  not  resent  it. 

"But,  my  dear  young  man,  will  you  not  tell  me  ?  If 
you  buy  a  coat,  do  you  not  want  to  know  the  price? 
If  you  pay  for  an  indiscretion,  is  not  the  sum  named  in 
the  settlement?" 

"Ten  thousand  dollars." 

There  was  no  change  in  the  Jew's  face.  The  smile 
did  not  alter. 

420 


PETER 

"And  this  is  the  money  that  Mr.  Grayson  tried  to 
borrow  for  you,  and  failed  ?  Is  it  not  so  ?  " 

Jack  nodded. 

"And  you  have  tried  everywhere  to  get  it  yourself? 
All  the  afternoon  you  have  been  at  it  ?  "  Still  the  same 
queer  smile — one  of  confirmation,  as  if  he  had  known 
it  all  the  time. 

Again  Jack  nodded.  Isaac  was  either  a  mind  reader 
or  he  must  have  been  listening  at  the  keyhole  when  he 
poured  out  his  heart  to  Peter. 

"Yes,  that  is  what  I  thought  when  I  saw  you  come 
in  a  little  while  ago,  dragging  your  feet  as  if  they  were 
lead,  and  your  eyes  on  the  ground.  The  step  and  the 
eye,  Mr.  Breen,  if  you  did  but  know  it,  make  a  very 
good  commercial  agency.  When  the  eye  is  bright  and 
the  walk  is  quick,  your  customer  has  the  money  to 
pay  either  in  his  pocket  or  in  his  bank;  when  the  step 
is  dull  and  sluggish,  you  take  a  risk;  when  the  eye 
looks  about  with  an  anxious  glance  and  the  step  is 
stealthy,  and  then  when  you  take  the  measure  for  the 
coat,  both  go  out  dancing,  you  may  never  get  a  penny. 
But  that  is  only  to  tell  you  how  I  know,"  the  tailor 
chuckled  softly.  "And  now  one  thing  more" — he  was 
serious  now — "when  must  you  have  this  ten  thousand 
dollars?" 

"Before  Monday  night." 

"In  cash?" 

"In  cash  or  something  I  can  get  cash  on." 

The  tailor  rose  from  his  seat  with  a  satisfied  air — he 
had  evidently  reached  the  point  he  had  been  striving 

421 


PETER 

for — laid  the  stump  of  his  cigar  on  the  edge  of  the 
mantel,  crossed  the  room,  fumbled  in  the  side  pocket  of 
a  coat  which  hung  on  a  nail  in  an  open  closet;  drew 
out  a  small  key;  sauntered  leisurely  to  his  desk,  all  the 
while  crooning  a  tune  to  'himself — Jack  following  his 
every  movement,  wondering  what  it  all  meant,  and  half 
regretting  that  he  had  not  kept  on  to  the  ferry  instead 
of  wasting  his  time.  Here  he  unlocked  a  drawer,  took 
out  a  still  smaller  key — a  flat  one  this  time — removed 
some  books  and  a  small  Barye  bronze  tiger  from  what 
appeared  to  be  a  high  square  table,  rolled  back  the 
cloth,  bringing  into  view  an  old-fashioned  safe,  applied 
the  key  and  swung  back  a  heavy  steel  door.  Here, 
still  crooning  his  song  in  a  low  key,  dropping  it  and 
picking  it  up  again  as  he  moved — quite  as  does  the 
grave-digger  in  "Hamlet" — he  drew  forth  a  long,  flat 
bundle  and  handed  it  to  Jack. 

"Take  them,  Mr.  Breen,  and  put  them  in  your  inside 
pocket.  There  are  ten  United  States  Government 
bonds.  If  these  Breen  people  will  not  lend  you  the 
amount  of  money  you  want,  take  them  to  Mr.  Gray- 
son's  bank.  Only  do  not  tell  him  I  gave  them  to  you. 
I  bought  them  yesterday  and  was  going  to  lock  them 
up  in  my  safe  deposit  vault,  only  I  could  not  leave  my 
shop.  Oh,  you  needn't  look  so  scared.  They  are 
good,"  and  he  loosened  the  wrapper. 

Jack  sprang  from  his  seat.  For  a  moment  he  could 
not  speak. 

"  But,  Mr.  Cohen !  Do  you  know  I  haven't  any  security 

to  offer  you,  and  that  I  have  only  my  salary  and " 

422 


PETER 

"Have  I  asked  you  for  any?"  Isaac  replied  with  a 
slight  shrug,  a  quizzical  smile  crossing  his  face. 

"No— but " 

"Ah,  then,  we  will  not  talk  about  it.  You  are  young 
—you  are  hard-working;  you  left  a  very  rich  home  on 
Fifth  Avenue  to  go  and  live  in  a  dirty  hotel  in  a  country 
village — all  because  you  were  honest;  you  risked  your 
life  to  save  your  employer;  and  now  you  want  to  go 
into  debt  to  save  a  friend.  Ah — you  see,  I  know  all 
about  you,  my  dear  Mr.  John  Breen.  Mr.  Grayson 
has  told  me,  and  if  he  had  not,  I  could  read  your  face. 
No — no — no — we  will  not  talk  about  such  things  as 
cent  per  cent  and  security.  No — no — I  am  very  glad  1 
had  the  bonds  where  I  could  get  at  them  quick.  There 
now — do  you  run  home  as  fast  as  you  can  and  tell  your 
friend.  He  is  more  unhappy  than  anybody." 

Jack  had  his  breath  now  and  he  had  also  made  up  his 
mind.  Every  drop  of  blood  in  his  body  was  in  revolt. 
Take  money  from  a  Jew  tailor  whom  he  had  not  seen 
half  a  dozen  times;  with  whom  he  had  no  business 
relations  or  dealings,  or  even  social  acquaintance  ? 

He  laid  the  bonds  back  on  the  desk. 

"I  cannot  take  them,  Mr.  Cohen.  I  thank  you 
most  sincerely,  but — no — you  must  not  give  them  to 
me.  I " 

Isaac  wheeled  suddenly  and  drew  himself  up.  His 
little  mouse  eyes  were  snapping,  and  his  face  fiery 
red. 

"You  will  not  take  them!     Why?" 

"I  don't  know— I  can't!" 
423 


PETER     . 

"I  know!"  he  cried  angrily,  but  with  a  certain  dig- 
nity. "  It  is  because  I  am  a  Jew.  Not  because  I  am  a 
tailor — you  have  too  much  sense  for  that — but  because 
I  am  a  Jew!" 

"Oh,  Mr.  Cohen!" 

"Yes — I  know — I  see  inside  of  you.  I  read  you  just 
as  if  you  were  a  page  in  a  book.  Who  taught  you  to 
think  that?  Not  your  Uncle  Peter;  he  loves  me — I 
love  him.  Who  taught  you  such  nonsense?"  His 
voice  had  risen  with  every  sentence.  In  his  indigna- 
tion he  looked  twice  his  size.  "Is  not  my  money  as 
good  as  that  man  Breen's — who  insults  you  when  you 
go  to  him  ? — and  who  laughed  at  you.  Have  I  laughed 
at  you?  Does  Mr.  Grayson  laugh?" 

Jack  tried  to  interrupt,  but  the  tailor's  words  poured 
on. 

"And  now  let  me  tell  you  one  thing  more,  Mr.  John 
Breen.  I  do  not  give  you  the  bonds.  I  give  them  to 
Mr.  Grayson.  Never  once  has  he  insulted  me  as  you 
do  now.  All  these  years — fifteen  years  this  winter — he 
has  been  my  friend.  And  now  when  the  boy  whom  he 
loves  wants  some  money  for  a  friend,  and  Mr.  Grayson 
has  none  to  give  him,  and  I,  who  am  Mr.  Grayson's 
friend,  come  to  help  that  boy  out  of  his  trouble,  you — 
you — remember,  you  who  have  nothing  to  do  with  it — 
you  turn  up  your  nose  and  stop  it  all.  Are  you  not 
ashamed  of  yourself?" 

Jack's  eyes  blazed.  He  was  not  accustomed  to  be 
spoken  to  in  that  way  by  anybody;  certainly  not  by  a 
tailor. 

424 


I  know!  "  he  cried  angrily,  but  with  certain  dignity. 
"It  is  because  I  am  a  Jew." 


PETER 

"Then  give  them  to  Uncle  Peter,"  Jack  flung  back. 
"See  what  he  will  say." 

"No,  I  will  not  give  them  to  your  Uncle  Peter.  It 
will  spoil  everything  with  me  if  he  knows  about  it.  He 
always  does  things  for  me  behind  my  back.  He  never 
lets  me  know.  Now  I  shall  do  something  for  him 
behind  his  back  and  not  let  him  know." 

"But " 

"There  are  no  buts!  Listen  to  me,  young  man.  I 
have  no  son;  I  have  no  grandchild;  I  live  here  alone — 
you  see  how  small  it  is  ?  Do  you  know  why  ? — because 
I  am  happiest  here.  I  know  what  it  is  to  suffer,  and  I 
know  what  it  is  for  other  people  to  suffer.  I  have  seen 
more  misery  in  London  in  a  year  than  you  will  see  in 
your  whole  life.  Those  ten  bonds  there  are  of  no  more 
use  to  me  than  an  extra  coat  of  paint  on  that  door.  I 
have  many  more  like  them  shut  up  in  a  box.  Almost 
every  day  people  come  to  me  for  money — sometimes 
they  get  it — oftener  they  do  not.  I  have  no  money  for 
beggars,  or  for  idlers,  or  for  liars.  I  have  worked  all 
my  life,  and  shall  to  the  end — and  so  must  they.  Now 
and  then  something  happens  like  this.  Now  do  you 
understand  ?  " 

Again  Jack  tried  to  speak.  His  anger  was  gone; 
the  pathos  in  the  Jew's  voice  had  robbed  him  of  all 
antagonism,  but  Cohen  would  allow  no  interruptions. 

"And  now  one  thing  more  before  I  let  you  speak, 
and  then  I  am  through.  In  all  the  years  I  have  known 
Mr.  Grayson,  this  is  the  first  time  I  have  ever  been 
able  to  help  him  with  the  only  thing  I  have  that 

425 


PETER 

can  help  him — my  money.  If  it  was  five  times  what 
you  want,  he  should  have  it.  Do  you  hear?  Five 
times!" 

Isaac  threw  himself  into  his  chair  and  sat  with  his 
chin  in  his  hand.  The  last  few  words  had  come  in  a 
dry,  choking  whisper — as  if  they  had  been  pumped 
from  the  depths  of  his  heart. 

Jack  instinctively  put  out  his  hand  and  touched  the 
Jew's  knee. 

"Will  you  please  forgive  me,  Mr.  Cohen — and  will 
you  please  listen  to  me.  I  won't  tell  you  a  lie.  I  did 
feel  that  way  at  first — I  do  not  now.  I  will  take  the 
bonds,  and  I  thank  you  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart 
for  them.  You  will  never  know  how  much  good  they 
will  do;  I  have  hardly  slept  since  I  knew  I  had  to  get 
this  money.  I  am,  perhaps,  too  tired  to  think  straight, 
but  you  must  do  something  for  me — you  must  make  it 
right  with  my  own  conscience.  I  want  to  sign  some- 
thing— give  you  something  as  security.  I  have  only 
one  thing  in  the  world  and  that  is  some  ore  property 
my  father  left  me  in  Maryland.  At  present  it  is  worth- 
less and  may  always  be,  but  still  it  is  all  I  have.  Let 
me  give  you  this.  If  it  turns  out  to  be  of  value  you 
can  take  out  your  loan  with  interest  and  give  me  the 
rest;  if  it  does  not,  I  will  pay  it  back  as  I  can;  it  may 
be  ten  years  or  it  may  be  less,  but  I  will  pay  it  if  I 
live." 

Isaac  raised  his  head.  "Well,  that  is  fair."  His 
voice  was  again  under  control.  "Not  for  me — but 
for  you.  Yes,  that  is  quite  right  for  you  to  feel  that 

426 


PETER 

way.  Next  week  you  can  bring  in  the  papers."  He 
picked  up  the  bonds.  "Now  put  these  in  your  inside 
pocket  and  look  out  for  them  as  you  cross  the  ferry. 
Good-by." 


427 


CHAPTER  XXX 

Jack  strode  out  into  the  night,  his  mind  in  a  whirl. 
No  sense  of  elation  over  the  money  had  possession  of 
him.  All  his  thoughts  were  on  Isaac.  What  manner 
of  man  was  this  Jew?  he  kept  asking  himself  in  a 
sort  of  stunned  surprise,  who  could  handle  his  shears 
like  a  journeyman,  talk  like  a  savant,  spend  money  like 
a  prince,  and  still  keep  the  heart  of  a  child  ?  Whoever 
heard  of  such  an  act  of  kindness;  and  so  spontaneous 
and  direct;  reading  his  heart,  sympathizing  with  him 
in  his  troubles — as  his  friend  would  have  done — as  his 
own  father  might  have  done. 

And  with  the  thought  of  Cohen's  supreme  instanta- 
neous response  there  followed  with  a  rush  of  shame  and 
self-humiliation  that  of  his  own  narrow-mindedness,  his 
mean  prejudices,  his  hatred  of  the  race,  his  question- 
ings of  Peter's  intimacy,  and  his  frequent  comments  on 
their  acquaintance — the  one  thing  he  could  never  under- 
stand in  his  beloved  mentor.  Again  Isaac's  words 
rang  in  his  ears.  "Is  it  because  I  am  a  Jew?  Who 
taught  you  such  nonsense?  Not  your  Uncle  Peter — 
he  loves  me.  I  love  him."  And  with  them  arose  the 
vision  of  the  man  stretched  to  his  full  height,  the  light 
of  the  lamp  glinting  on  his  moist  forehead,  his  bead- 
like  eyes  flashing  in  the  rush  of  his  anger. 

428 


PETER 

As  to  the  sacrifice  both  he  and  Ruth  had  just  made, 
and  it  was  now  final,  this  no  longer  troubled  him.  He 
had  already  weighed  for  her  every  side  of  the  question, 
taking  especial  pains  to  discuss  each  phase  of  the  sub- 
ject, even  going  so  far  as  to  disagree  with  MacFarlane's 
opinion  as  to  the  worthlessness  of  the  ore  lands.  But 
the  dear  child  had  never  wavered. 

"No! — I  don't  care/'  she  had  answered  with  a  toss 
of  her  head.  "  Let  the  land  go  if  there  is  no  other  way. 
We  can  get  on  without  it,  my  darling,  and  these  poor 
people  cannot."  She  had  not,  of  course,  if  the  truth 
must  be  told,  weighed  any  of  the  consequences  of  what 
their  double  sacrifice  might  entail,  nor  had  she  realized 
the  long  years  of  work  which  might  ensue,  or  the  self- 
denial  and  constant  anxiety  attending  its  repayment. 
Practical  questions  on  so  large  a  scale  had  been  outside 
the  range  of  her  experience.  Hers  was  the  spirit  of 
Joan  of  old,  who  reckoned  nothing  of  value  but  her 
ideal. 

Nor  can  we  blame  her.  When  your  cheeks  are  twin 
roses;  your  hair  black  as  a  crow's  wing  and  fine  as  silk; 
and  your  teeth — not  one  missing — so  many  seed  pearls 
peeping  from  pomegranate  lips;  when  your  blood  goes 
skipping  and  bubbling  through  your  veins;  when  at 
night  you  sleep  like  a  baby,  and  at  morn  you  spring 
from  your  bed  in  the  joy  of  another  day;  when  there  are 
two  strong  brown  hands  and  two  strong  arms,  and  a 
great,  loving,  honest  heart  every  bit  your  own;  and 
when,  too,  there  are  crisp  autumn  afternoons  to  come, 
with  gold  and  brown  for  a  carpet,  and  long  winter  even- 

429 


PETER 

ings,  the  fire-light  dancing  on  the  overhead  rafters;  and 
'way — 'way — beyond  this — somewhere  in  the  far  future 
there  rises  a  slender  spire  holding  a  chime  of  bells,  and 
beneath  it  a  deep-toned  organ — when  this,  I  say,  is,  or 
will  be,  your  own — the  gold  of  the  Indies  is  but  so  much 
tinkling  brass,  and  Cleopatra's  diadem  a  mere  bauble 
with  which  to  quiet  a  child. 

It  was  not  until  he  was  nearing  Corklesville  that 
the  sense  of  the  money  really  came  to  him.  He  knew 
what  it  would  mean  to  Ruth  and  what  her  eyes 
would  hold  of  gladness  and  relief.  Suddenly  there 
sprang  to  his  lips  an  unbidden  laugh,  a  spontaneous 
overflow  from  the  joy  of  his  heart;  the  first  he  had 
uttered  for  days.  Ruth  should  know  first.  He  would 
take  her  in  his  arms  and  tell  her  to  hunt  in  all  his 
pockets,  and  then  he  would  kiss  her  and  place  the 
package  in  her  hands.  And  then  the  two  would  go  to 
Corinne.  It  would  be  late,  and  she  would  be  in  bed, 
perhaps,  but  that  made  no  difference.  Ruth  would 
steal  noiselessly  upstairs;  past  where  Garry  lay,  the 
flowers  heaped  upon  his  coffin,  and  Corinne  would 
learn  the  glad  tidings  before  to-morrow's  sun.  At  last 
the  ghost  which  had  haunted  them  all  these  days  was 
banished;  her  child  would  be  safe,  and  Corinne  would 
no  longer  have  to  hide  her  head. 

Once  more  the  precious  package  became  the  domi- 
nant thought.  Ten  bonds!  More  than  enough !  What 
would  McGowan  say  now?  What  would  his  Uncle 
Arthur  say?  He  slipped  his  hand  under  his  coat 
fondling  the  wrapper,  caressing  it  as  a  lover  does  a 

430 


PETER 

long-delayed  letter,  as  a  prisoner  does  a  key  which  is 
to  turn  darkness  into  light,  as  a  hunted  man  a  weapon 
which  may  save  his  life. 

It  did  not  take  Jack  many  minutes  we  may  be  sure  to 
hurry  from  the  station  to  Ruth's  home.  There  it  all 
happened  just  as  he  had  planned  and  schemed  it  should 
— even  to  the  kiss  and  the  hunting  for  the  package  of 
bonds,  and  Ruth's  cry  of  joy,  and  the  walk  through  the 
starlight  night  to  Corinne's,  and  the  finding  her  up- 
stairs; except  that  the  poor  woman  was  not  yet  in  bed. 

"  Who  gave  it  to  you,  Jack  ?  "  Corinne  asked  in  a  tired 
voice. 

"A  friend  of  Uncle  Peter's." 

"You  mean  Mr.  Grayson?" 

"Yes." 

There  was  no  outburst,  no  cry  of  gratitude,  no  flood 
of  long-pent-up  tears.  The  storm  had  so  crushed  and 
bruised  this  plant  that  many  days  must  elapse  before 
it  would  again  lift  its  leaves  from  the  mud. 

"It  was  very  good  of  Mr.  Grayson,  Jack,"  was  all 
she  said  in  answer,  and  then  relapsed  into  the  apathy 
which  had  been  hers  since  the  hour  when  the  details 
of  her  husband's  dishonesty  had  dropped  from  his  lips. 

Poor  girl !  she  had  no  delusions  to  sustain  her.  She 
knew  right  from  wrong.  Emotions  never  misled  her. 
In  her  earlier  years  she  and  her  mother  had  been  ac- 
customed to  look  things  squarely  in  the  face,  and  to 
work  out  their  own  careers;  a  game  of  chance,  it  is 
true,  until  her  mother's  marriage  with  the  elder  Breen; 

431 


PETER 

but  they  had  both  been  honest  careers,  and  they  had 
owed  no  man  a  penny.  Garry  had  fought  the  battle 
for  her  within  the  last  few  years,  and  in  return  she  had 
loved  him  as  much  as  she  was  able  to  love  anybody; 
but  she  had  loved  him  as  a  man  of  honor,  not  as  a  thief. 
Now  he  had  lied  to  her,  had  refused  to  listen  to  her  plead- 
ings, and  the  end  had  come.  What  was  there  left,  and  to 
whom  should  she  now  turn — she  without  a  penny  to 
her  name — except  to  her  stepfather,  who  had  insulted 
and  despised  her.  She  had  even  been  compelled  to 
seek  help  from  Ruth  and  Jack;  and  now  at  last  to 
accept  it  from  Mr.  Grayson — he  almost  a  stranger. 
These  were  the  thoughts  which,  like  strange  night- 
mares, swept  across  her  tired  brain,  taking  grewsome 
shapes,  each  one  more  horrible  than  its  predecessor. 

At  the  funeral,  next  day,  she  presented  the  same  im- 
passive front.  Breen  and  her  mother  rode  with  her  in 
the  carriage  to  the  church,  and  Jack  and  Ruth  helped 
her  alight,  but  she  might  have  been  made  of  stone  so 
far  as  she  evinced  either  sorrow  or  interest  in  what 
was  taking  place  about  her.  And  yet  nothing  had  been 
omitted  by  friend  or  foe  expressive  of  the  grief  and 
heart-felt  sorrow  the  occasion  demanded.  Holker 
Morris  sent  a  wreath  of  roses  with  a  special  letter  to 
her,  expressing  his  confidence  in  and  respect  for  the 
man  he  had  brought  up  from  a  boy.  A  committee  was 
present  from  the  Society  of  Architects  to  which  Garry 
belonged;  half  a  dozen  of  his  old  friends  from  the 
Magnolia  were  present,  Biffy  among  them;  the  village 
Council  and  the  Board  of  Church  Trustees  came  in  a 

432 


PETER 

body,  and  even  McGowan  felt  it  incumbent  upon  him 
to  stand  up  during  the  service  and  assume  the  air  of 
one  who  had  been  especially  bereft.  Nor  were  the 
notices  in  the  country  and  city  papers  wanting  in 
respect.  "One  of  our  most  distinguished  citizens — a 
man  who  has  reached  the  topmost  round  of  the  ladder," 
etc.,  etc.,  one  editorial  began. 

It  was  only  when  the  funeral  was  over,  and  she  was 
once  more  at  home,  that  she  expressed  the  slightest 
concern.  Then  she  laid  her  hand  in  Peter's  and  threw 
back  her  heavy  crepe  veil:  "You  have  saved  me  from 
disgrace,  Mr.  Grayson,"  she  said,  in  a  low,  monotonous 
voice,  "and  my  little  boy  as  well.  I  try  to  think  that 
Garry  must  have  been  out  of  his  mind  when  he  took 
the  money.  He  would  not  listen  to  me,  and  he  would 
not  tell  me  the  truth.  Jack  is  going  to  pay  it  back  to- 
morrow, and  nobody  will  ever  know  that  my  husband 
did  wrong;  but  I  couldn't  let  you  go  away  without 
thanking  you  for  having  saved  us.  My  stepfather 
wouldn't  help — nobody  would  help  but  you.  I  don't 
know  why  you  did  it.  It  seems  so  strange.  I  had 
given  up  all  hope  when  Jack  came  back  last  night." 

Peter  sat  perfectly  still,  his  hand  on  her  wrist,  where 
he  had  placed  it  to  show  by  a  kindly  touch  his  sym- 
pathy for  her.  Not  knowing  what  her  lips  would  tell, 
he  had  begun  to  pat  the  back  of  her  black  glove  when 
she  started  to  speak,  as  one  would  quiet  a  child  who 
pours  out  its  troubles,  but  he  stopped  in  amazement  as 
she  proceeded.  He  had  not  loaned  her  a  dollar,  nor 
had  Jack,  as  he  knew,  succeeded  in  getting  a  penny, 

433 


PETER 

unless  by  a  miracle  he  had  met  some  one  on  the  train 
who  had  come  to  his  rescue. 

What  did  the  poor  woman  mean?  Disgrace! 
Trouble!  Garry  taking  money,  and  Jack  paying  it 
back  on  Monday!  The  horror  of  her  husband's  sudden 
death  had  undoubtedly  turned  her  mind,  distorting 
some  simple  business  transaction  into  a  crime,  or  she 
would  not  be  thanking  him  for  something  that  he  had 
never  done.  This  talk  of  Jack's  could  only  have  been 
a  ruse  to  keep  up  her  spirits  and  give  her  false  strength 
until  she  had  passed  through  the  agonizing  ordeal  of 
the  funeral — he  accepting  all  her  delusions  as  true — as 
one  does  when  an  insane  person  is  to  be  coaxed  back 
into  a  cell.  These  thoughts  went  whirling  through  his 
mind,  as  Peter  watched  her  face  closely,  wondering 
what  would  be  his  course.  He  had  not  met  her  often, 
yet  he  could  see  that  she  was  terribly  changed.  He 
noticed,  too,  that  all  through  the  interview  she  had 
not  shed  a  tear.  Yes — there  was  no  question  that  her 
mind  was  unbalanced.  The  best  plan  would  be  to 
bring  the  interview  to  an  end  as  quickly  as  possible, 
so  she  should  not  dwell  too  long  on  her  sorrow. 

"If  I  have  done  anything  to  help  you,  my  dear  lady," 
he  said  with  gentle  courtesy,  rising  from  his  chair  and 
taking  her  hand  again,  "or  can  do  anything  for  you 
in  the  future,  I  shall  be  most  happy,  and  you  must 
certainly  let  me  know.  And  now,  may  I  not  ask  you 
to  go  upstairs  and  lie  down.  You  are  greatly  fatigued— 
I  assure  you  I  feel  for  you  most  deeply." 

But  his  mind  was  still  disturbed.     Ruth  and  Jack 
434 


PETER 

wondered  at  his  quiet  as  he  sat  beside  them  on  the  way 
back  to  MacFarlane's — gazing  out  of  the  carriage  win- 
dow, his  clean-shaven,  placid  face  at  rest,  his  straight 
thin  lips  close  shut.  He  hardly  spoke  until  they 
reached  the  house,  and  then  it  was  when  he  helped 
Ruth  alight.  Once  inside,  however,  he  beckoned  Jack, 
and  without  a  word  led  him  alone  into  MacFarlane's 
study — now  almost  dismantled  for  the  move  to  Mor- 
fordsburg — and  closed  the  door. 

"Mrs.  Minott  has  just  told  me  the  most  extraor- 
dinary thing,  Jack — an  unbelievable  story.  Is  she 
quite  sane?" 

Jack  scanned  Peter's  face  and  read  the  truth.  Corinne 
had  evidently  told  him  everything.  This  was  the 
severest  blow  of  all. 

"She  supposed  you  knew,  sir,"  answered  Jack 
quietly,  further  concealment  now  being  useless, 

"Knew  what?"  Peter  was  staring  at  him  with 
wide-open  eyes. 

"What  she  told  you,  sir,"  faltered  Jack. 

The  old  man  threw  up  his  hands  in  horror. 

"What!  You  really  mean  to  tell  me,  Jack,  that 
Minott  has  been  stealing?" 

Jack  bent  his  head  and  his  eyes  sought  the  floor. 
He  could  hardly  have  been  more  ashamed  had  he  him- 
self been  the  culprit. 

"God  bless  my  soul!     From  whom?" 

"The  church  funds — he  was  trustee.  The  meeting 
is  to-morrow,  and  it  would  all  have  come  out." 

A  great  light  broke  over  Peter — as  when  a  window  is 
435 


PETER 

opened  in  a  darkened  room  in  which  one  has  been 
stumbling. 

"And  you  have  walked  the  streets  trying  to  beggar 
yourself,  not  to  help  MacFarlane  but  to  keep  Minott 
out  of  jail!"  Amazement  had  taken  the  place  of 
horror. 

"He  was  my  friend,  sir — and  there  are  Corinne  and 
the  little  boy.  It  is  all  over  now.  I  have  the  money — 
that  is,  I  have  got  something  to  raise  it  on." 

"Who  gave  it  to  you?"  He  was  still  groping, 
blinded  by  the  revelations,  his  gray  eyes  staring  at 
Jack,  his  voice  trembling,  beads  of  perspiration  moist- 
ening his  forehead. 

"Isaac  Cohen.  He  has  given  me  ten  Government 
bonds.  They  are  in  that  drawer  behind  you.  He 
overheard  what  I  said  to  you  yesterday  about  wanting 
some  money,  and  was  waiting  for  me  when  I  went 
downstairs.  He  gave  them  to  me  because  he  loved  you, 
he  said.  I  am  to  give  him  my  ore  property  as  security, 
although  I  told  him  it  was  of  no  value." 

Peter  made  a  step  forward,  stretching  out  a  hand 
as  if  to  steady  himself.  His  face  grew  white  then  sud- 
denly flushed.  His  breath  seemed  to  have  left  him. 

"And  Cohen  did  this!"  he  gasped — "and  you  for 
Minott!  Why— why " 

Jack  caught  him  in  his  arms,  thinking  he  was  about 
to  fall. 

"No!  No!  I'm  all  right,"  he  cried,  patting  Jack's 
shoulder.  "It's  you! — you — you,  my  splendid  boy! 
Oh! — how  I  love  you!" 

436 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

The  following  morning  Jack  walked  into  Arthur 
Breen's  private  office  while  his  uncle  was  reading  his 
mail,  and  laid  the  package  containing  the  ten  bonds  on 
his  desk.  So  far  as  their  borrowing  capacity  was  con- 
cerned, he  could  have  walked  up  the  marble  steps  of 
any  broker's  office  or  bank  on  either  side  of  the  street — 
that  is,  wherever  he  was  known,  and  he  was  still  re- 
membered by  many  of  them — thrust  the  package 
through  the  cashier's  window,  and  walked  down  again 
with  a  certified  check  for  their  face  value  in  his  pocket. 

But  the  boy  had  other  ends  in  view.  Being  human, 
and  still  smarting  under  his  uncle's  ridicule  and  con- 
tempt, he  wanted  to  clear  his  own  name  and  character; 
being  loyal  to  his  friend's  memory  and  feeling  that 
Garry's  reputation  must  be  at  least  patched  up — and 
here  in  Breen's  place  and  before  the  man  who  had  so  bit- 
terly denounced  it;  and  being  above  all  tender-hearted 
and  gallant  where  a  woman,  and  a  sorrowing  one,  was 
concerned,  he  must  give  Corinne  and  the  child  a  fair 
and  square  start  in  the  house  of  Breen,  with  no  overdue 
accounts  to  vex  her  except  such  petty  ones  as  a  small 
life  insurance  and  a  few  uncollected  commissions  could 
liquidate. 

437 


PETER 

These  much-to-be-desired  results  could  only  be  at- 
tained when  the  senior  member  of  the  firm  was  made 
acquainted  with  the  fact  that,  after  all,  Garry's  debts 
could  be  paid  and  his  reputation  saved.  The  money 
must,  therefore,  be  borrowed  of  Arthur  Breen  &  Co. 
His  uncle  would  know  then  beyond  doubt;  his  axiom 
being  that  the  only  thing  that  talked  loud  enough  ever 
to  make  him  listen  was  "money." 

It  was  therefore  with  a  sense  of  supreme  satisfaction, 
interwoven  with  certain  suppressed  exuberance  born  of 
freedom  and  self-reliance,  that  Jack,  in  answer  to 
Breen's  " What's  this?"  when  his  eyes  rested  on  the 
bundle  of  bonds,  replied  in  an  off-hand  but  entirely 
respectful  manner: 

"Ten  United  States  Government  bonds,  sir;  and 
will  you  please  give  me  a  check  drawn  to  my  order  for 
this  amount?"  and  he  handed  the  astounded  broker 
the  slip  of  paper  McGowan  had  given  him,  on  which 
was  scrawled  the  total  of  the  overdue  vouchers. 

Breen  slipped  off  the  rubber  band,  spread  out  the 
securities  as  a  lady  opens  a  fan,  noted  the  title,  date, 
and  issue,  and  having  assured  himself  of  their  genuine- 
ness, asked  in  a  confused,  almost  apologetic  way,  as  he 
touched  a  bell  to  summon  the  cashier: 

"Where  did  you  get  these?  Did  MacFarlane  give 
them  to  you?" 

"No — a  friend,"  answered  Jack  casually,  and  with- 
out betraying  a  trace  of  either  excitement  or  impatience. 

"On  what?"  snapped  Breen,  something  of  his  old 
dictatorial  manner  asserting  itself. 

438 


PETER 

"On  my  word,"  replied  Jack,  with  a  note  of  triumph, 
which  he  could  not  wholly  conceal. 

The  door  opened  and  the  cashier  entered.  Breen 
handed  him  the  bonds,  gave  instructions  about  the 
drawing  of  the  check,  and  turned  to  Jack  again.  He 
was  still  suffering  from  amazement,  the  boy's  im- 
perturbable manner  being  responsible  for  most  of  it. 

"And  does  this  pay  Minott's  debts?"  he  asked  in  a 
more  conciliatory  tone. 

"Every  dollar,"  replied  Jack_ 

Breen  looked  up.  Where  had  the  boy  got  this 
poise  and  confidence,  he  asked  himself,  as  a  flush  of 
pride  swept  through  him;  after  all,  Jack  was  of  his 
own  blood,  his  brother's  son. 

"And  I  suppose  now  that  it's  you  who  will  be  doing 
the  walking  instead  of  Minott's  creditors?"  Breen  in- 
quired with  a  frown  that  softened  into  a  smile  as  he 
gazed  the  longer  into  Jack's  calm  eyes. 

"Yes,  for  a  time,"  rejoined  Jack  in  the  same  even, 
unhurried  voice. 

The  clerk  brought  in  the  slip  of  paper,  passed  it  to 
his  employer,  who  examined  it  closely,  and  who  then 
affixed  his  signature. 

"If  you  get  any  more  of  that  kind  of  stuff  and  want 
help  in  the  new  work,  let  me  know." 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  said  Jack,  folding  up  the  precious 
scrap  and  slipping  it  into  his  pocket. 

Breen  waited  until  Jack  had  closed  the  door,  pulled 
from  a  pigeon-hole  a  bundle  of  papers  labelled  Mary- 
land Mining  Company,  touched  another  button  sum- 

439 


PETER 

moning  his  stenographer,  and  said  in  a  low  voice  to 
himself : 

"Yes,  I  have  it!     Something  is  going  on  in  that  ore 
property.     I'll  write  and  find  out." 


440 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

The  Board  of  Church  Trustees  met,  as  customary,  on 
Monday  night,  but  there  was  no  business  transacted 
except  the  passing  of  a  resolution  expressing  its  deep 
regret  over  the  loss  of  "our  distinguished  fellow- 
townsman,  whose  genius  has  added  so  much  to  the 
beautifying  of  our  village,  and  whose  uprightness  of 
character  will  always  be,"  etc.,  etc. 

Neither  Jack  nor  McGowan,  nor  any  one  represent- 
ing their  interests,  was  present.  A  hurried  glance  over 
Garry's  check  and  bank-books  showed  that  the  money 
to  pay  McGowan's  vouchers — the  exact  sum — had 
been  drawn  from  the  fund  and  deposited  to  Garry's 
personal  credit  in  his  own  bank  in  New  York.  Former 
payments  to  McGowan  had  been  made  in  this  way. 
There  was  therefore  no  proof  that  this  sum  had  been 
diverted  into  illegitimate  channels. 

McGowan  was  paid  that  same  Monday  afternoon, 
Jack  bringing  the  papers  to  the  contractor's  office, 
where  they  were  signed  in  the  presence  of  Murphy  and 
his  clerk. 

And  so  the  matter  was  closed,  each  and  every  one 
concerned  being  rejoiced  over  the  outcome. 

"Mr.  Minott  (it  was  'Mr.'  now)  had  a  big  stack 
441 


PETER 

of  money  over  at  his  stepfather's  bank,"  was  Murphy's 
statement  to  a  group  around  a  table  in  one  of  the  bar- 
rooms of  the  village.  "He  was  in  a  big  deal,  so  Mac 
thinks,  and  didn't  want  to  haul  any  of  it  out.  So 
when  he  died  Mr.  Breen  never  squawked — just  went 
over  and  told  the  old  man  that  Mac  wanted  the  money 
and  to  fork  out;  and  he  did,  like  a  good  one.  I 
seen  the  check,  I  tell  ye.  Oh!  they're  all  in  together. 
Mr.  Breen's  kin  to  them  New  York  folks,  and  so  is 
Mrs.  Minott.  He's  her  father,  I  hear.  I  think  Mac 
shot  off  his  mouth  too  quick,  and  I  told  him  so,  but  he 
was  so  het  up  he  couldn't  keep  still.  Why,  them 
fellers  has  got  more  money  than  they  can  throw  away. 
Mac  sees  his  mistake  now.  Heard  him  tell  Mr.  Breen 
that  Mr.  Minott  was  the  whitest  man  he  ever  knowed; 
and  you  bet  yer  life  he's  right." 

Nor  was  Murphy's  eulogium  the  only  one  heard  in 
the  village.  Within  a  week  after  the  funeral  a  com- 
mittee was  appointed  to  gather  funds  for  the  placing 
of  a  stained-glass  window  in  the  new  church  in  memory 
of  the  young  architect  who  had  designed  and  erected 
it;  with  the  result  that  Holker  Morris  headed  the  sub- 
scription list,  an  example  which  was  followed  by  many 
of  the  townspeople,  including  McGowan  and  Murphy 
and  several  others  of  their  class,  as  well  as  various 
members  of  the  Village  Council,  together  with  many  of 
Garry's  friends  in  New  York,  all  of  which  was  duly  set 
forth  in  the  county  and  New  York  papers;  a  fact  which 
so  impressed  the  head  of  the  great  banking  firm  of 
Arthur  Breen  &  Co.  that  he  immediately  sent  his 

442 


PETER 

personal  check  for  a  considerable  amount,  desiring,  as 
he  stated  at  a  club  dinner  that  same  night,  to  pay  some 
slight  tribute  to  that  brilliant  young  fellow,  Minott, 
who,  you  know,  married  Mrs.  Breen's  daughter — a 
lovely  girl,  brought  up  in  my  own  house,  and  who  has 
now  come  home  again  to  live  with  us. 

Peter  listened  attentively  while  Jack  imparted  these 
details,  a  peculiar  smile  playing  about  the  corners  of 
his  eyes  and  mouth,  his  only  comment  at  the  strange- 
ness of  such  posthumous  honors  to  such  a  man,  but 
he  became  positively  hilarious  when  Jack  reached  that 
part  in  the  narrative  in  which  the  head  of  the  house  of 
Breen  figured  as  chief  contributor. 

"And  you  mean  to  tell  me,  Jack,"  he  roared,  "that 
Breen  has  pushed  himself  into  poor  Minott's  stained- 
glass  window,  with  the  saints  and  the  gold  crowns,  and 
— oh,  Jack,  you  can't  be  serious!" 

"That's  what  the  Rector  tells  me,  sir." 

"But,  Jack — forgive  me,  my  boy,  but  I  have  never  in 
all  my  life  heard  anything  so  delicious.  Don't  you  think 
if  Holker  spoke  to  the  artist  that  Mr.  Iscariot,  or  per- 
haps the  estimable  Mr.  Ananias,  or  Mr.  Pecksniff,  or 
Uriah  Keep  might  also  be  tucked  away  in  the  back- 
ground ? "  And  with  this  the  old  fellow,  in  spite  of 
his  sympathy  for  Jack  and  the  solemnity  of  the  occa- 
sion, threw  back  his  head  and  laughed  so  long  and  so 
heartily  that  Mrs.  McGuffey  made  excuse  to  enter  the 
room  to  find  out  what  it  was  all  about. 

With  the  subletting  of  Garry's  house  and  the  shipping 
of  his  furniture — that  which  was  not  sold — to  her  step- 

443 


PETER 

father's  house,  Jack's  efforts  on  behalf  of  his  dead 
friend  and  his  family  came  to  a  close.  Ruth  helped 
Corinne  pack  her  personal  belongings,  and  Jack  found 
a  tenant  who  moved  in  the  following  week.  Willing 
hands  are  oftenest  called  upon,  and  so  it  happened  that 
the  two  lovers  bore  all  the  brunt  of  the  domestic  up- 
heaval. 

Their  own  packing  had  long  since  been  completed; 
not  a  difficult  matter  in  a  furnished  house;  easy  always 
to  Ruth  and  her  father,  whose  nomadic  life  was  marked 
by  constant  changes.  Indeed,  the  various  boxes,  cases, 
crates,  and  barrels  containing  much  of  the  linen,  china, 
and  glass,  to  say  nothing  of  the  portieres,  rugs  and 
small  tables,  and  the  whole  of  Ruth's  bedroom  furni- 
ture, had  already  been  loaded  aboard  a  box  car  and 
sent  on  its  way  to  Morfordsburg,  there  to  await  the 
arrival  of  the  joyous  young  girl,  whose  clear  brain  and 
competent  hands  would  bring  order  out  of  chaos,  no 
matter  how  desolate  the  interior  and  the  environment. 

For  these  dainty  white  hands  with  their  pink  nails 
and  soft  palms,  so  wonderfully  graceful  over  teapot  or 
fan,  could  wield  a  broom  or  even  a  dust-pan  did  neces- 
sity require.  Ruth  in  a  ball  gown,  all  frills  and  ruffles 
and  lace,  was  a  sight  to  charm  the  eye  of  any  man,  but 
Ruth  in  calico  and  white  apron,  her  beautiful  hair  piled 
on  top  of  her  still  more  beautiful  head;  her  skirts 
pinned  up,  and  her  dear  little  feet  pattering  about, 
was  a  sight  not  only  for  men  but  for  gods  as  well. 
Jack  loved  her  in  this  costume,  and  so  would  you  had 
you  known  her.  I  myself,  old  and  wrinkled  as  I  am, 

444 


PETER 

have  never  forgotten  how  I  rapped  at  the  wrong  door 
one  morning — the  kitchen  door — and  found  her  in  that 
same  costume,  with  her  arms  bare  to  the  elbows  and 
covered  with  flour,  where  she  had  been  making  a 
"sally  lunn"  for  daddy.  Nor  can  I  forget  her  ringing 
laugh  as  she  saw  the  look  of  astonishment  on  my  face, 
or  my  delight  when  she  ordered  me  inside  and  made 
me  open  the  oven  door  so  that  she  could  slide  in  the  fin- 
ished product  without  burning  her  fingers. 

The  packing  up  of  their  own  household  impedimenta 
complete,  there  came  a  few  days  of  leisure — the  first 
breathing  spell  that  either  MacFarlane  or  Jack,  or 
Ruth,  too,  for  that  matter,  had  had  for  weeks.  Mac- 
Farlane, in  view  of  the  coming  winter — a  long  and 
arduous  one,  took  advantage  of  the  interim  and  went 
south,  to  his  club,  for  a  few  days'  shooting — a  rare 
luxury  for  him  of  late  years.  Jack  made  up  his  mind 
to  devote  every  one  of  his  spare  hours  to  getting  better 
acquainted  with  Ruth,  and  that  young  woman,  not 
wishing  to  be  considered  either  neglectful  or  selfish, 
determined  to  sacrifice  every  hour  of  the  day  and  as 
much  of  the  night  as  was  proper  and  possible  to  getting 
better  acquainted  with  Jack;  and  the  two  had  a  royal 
time  in  the  doing. 

Jack,  too,  had  another  feeling  about  it  all.  It  seemed 
to  him  that  he  had  a  debt  of  gratitude — the  rasping 
word  had  long  since  lost  its  edge — to  discharge;  and  that 
he  owed  her  every  leisure  hour  he  could  steal  from  his 
work.  He  had  spent  days  and  nights  in  the  service  of 
his  friends,  and  had,  besides,  laid  the  burden  of  their 

445 


PETER 

anxieties  upon  her.  He  would  pay  her  in  return 
twice  as  many  days  of  gladness  to  make  up  for  the 
pain  she  had  so  cheerfully  borne.  What  could  he  do 
to  thank  her  ? — how  discharge  the  obligation  ?  Every 
hour  he  would  tell  her,  and  in  different  ways — by  his 
tenderness,  by  his  obedience  to  her  slightest  wish,  an- 
ticipating her  every  want — how  much  he  appreciated 
her  unselfishness,  and  how  much  better,  if  that  were 
possible,  he  loved  her  for  her  sacrifice.  Nor  was  there, 
when  the  day  came,  any  limit  to  his  devotion  or  to  her 
enjoyment.  There  were  rides  over  the  hills  in  the  soft 
September  mornings — Indian  summer  in  its  most 
dreamy  and  summery  state;  there  were  theatre  parties 
of  two  and  no  more;  when  they  sat  in  the  third  row  in 
the  balcony,  where  it  was  cheaper,  and  where,  too,  they 
wouldn't  have  to  speak  to  anybody  else.  There  were 
teas  in  Washington  Square,  where  nobody  but  them- 
selves and  their  hostess  were  present,  as  well  as  other 
unexpected  outings,  in  which  all  the  rest  of  the  world 
was  forgotten. 

The  house,  too,  was  all  their  own.  Nobody  up- 
stairs; nobody  downstairs  but  the  servants;  even  the 
emptiness  of  daddy's  room,  so  grewsome  in  the  old 
days,  brought  a  certain  feeling  of  delight.  "Just  you 
and  me,"  as  they  said  a  dozen  times  a  day  to  each 
other.  And  then  the  long  talks  on  that  blessed  old 
sofa  with  its  cushions — (what  a  wonderful  old  sofa  it 
was,  and  how  much  it  had  heard);  talks  about  when 
she  was  a  girl — as  if  she  had  ever  passed  the  age;  and 
when  he  was  a  boy;  and  of  what  they  both  thought 

446 


PETER 

and  did  in  that  blissful  state  of  innocence  and  inex- 
perience. Talks  about  the  bungalow  they  would  build 
some  day — that  bungalow  which  Garry  had  toppled 
over — and  how  it  would  be  furnished;  and  whether 
they  could  not  persuade  the  landlord  to  sell  them  the 
dear  sofa  and  move  it  out  there  bodily;  talks  about 
their  life  during  the  coming  winter,  and  whether  she 
should  visit  Aunt  Felicia's — and  if  so,  whether  Jack 
would  come  too;  and  if  she  didn't,  wouldn't  it  be  just 
as  well  for  Jack  to  have  some  place  in  Morfordsburg 
where  he  could  find  a  bed  in  case  he  got  storm-bound 
and  couldn't  get  back  to  the  cabin  that  same  night. 
All  kinds  and  conditions  and  sorts  of  talks  that  only 
two  lovers  enjoy,  and  for  which  only  two  lovers  can 
find  the  material. 

Sometimes  she  thought  he  might  be  too  lonely  and 
neglected  at  the  log-cabin.  Then  she  would  make 
believe  she  was  going  to  ask  daddy  to  let  them  be 
married  right  away,  insisting  that  two  rooms  were 
enough  for  them,  and  that  she  herself  would  do  the 
washing  and  ironing  and  the  cooking,  at  which  Jack 
would  laugh  over  the  joy  of  it  all,  conjuring  up  in  his 
mind  the  pattern  of  apron  she  would  wear  and  how 
pretty  her  bare  arms  would  be  bending  over  the  tub, 
knowing  all  the  time  that  he  would  no  more  have 
allowed  her  to  do  any  one  of  these  things  than  he  would 
have  permitted  her  to  chop  the  winter's  wood. 

Most  of  these  day  dreams,  plots,  and  imaginings 
were  duly  reported  by  letter  to  Miss  Felicia  to  see  what 
she  thought  of  them  all.  For  the  dear  lady's  opposi- 

447 


PETER 

tion  had  long  since  broken  down.  In  these  letters 
Ruth  poured  out  her  heart  as  she  did  to  no  one  except 
Jack;  each  missive  interspersed  with  asides  as  to  how 
dear  Jack  was,  and  how  considerate,  and  how  it  would 
not  be  a  very  long  time  before  she  would  soon  get  the 
other  half  of  the  dear  lady's  laces,  now  that  daddy  and 
Jack  (the  boy  had  been  given  an  interest  in  the  business) 
were  going  to  make  lots  of  money  on  the  new  work — 
to  all  of  which  Miss  Felicia  replied  that  love  in  a  garret 
was  what  might  be  expected  of  fools,  but  that  love  in  a 
log-cabin  could  only  be  practised  by  lunatics. 

It  was  toward  the  close  of  this  pre-honey-moon — it 
lasted  only  ten  days,  but  it  was  full  moon  every  hour 
and  no  clouds — when,  early  one  morning — before  nine 
o'clock,  really — a  night  message  was  handed  to  Jack. 
It  had  been  sent  to  the  brick  office,  but  the  telegraph 
boy,  finding  that  building  closed  and  abandoned,  had 
delivered  it  to  Mrs.  Hicks,  who,  discovering  it  to  be 
sealed,  forwarded  it  at  once,  and  by  the  same  hand,  to 
the  MacFarlane  house,  known  now  to  everybody  as 
the  temporary  headquarters,  especially  in  the  day 
time,  of  the  young  superintendent  who  was  going  to 
marry  the  daughter — "and  there  ain't  a  nicer,  nor  a 
better,  nor  a  prettier." 

On  this  morning,  then,  the  two  had  planned  a  day  in 
the  woods  back  of  the  hills;  Ruth's  mare  was  to  be 
hooked  up  to  a  hired  buggy,  and  such  comforts  as  a 
bucket  of  ice,  lettuce  sandwiches  thin  as  wafers,  a  cold 
chicken,  a  spirit  lamp,  teapot,  and  cups  and  saucers, 

448 


PETER 

not  to  mention  a  big  shawl  for  my  sweetheart  to  sit  on, 
and  another  smaller  one  for  her  lovely  shoulders  when 
the  cool  of  the  evening  came  on,  were  to  be  stowed 
away  under  the  seat. 

"That  telegram  is  from  Aunt  Felicia,  I  know,"  said 
Ruth.  "She  has  set  her  heart  on  my  coming  up  to 
Geneseo,  but  I  cannot  go,  Jack.  I  don't  want  to  be 
a  minute  away  from  you." 

Jack  had  now  broken  the  seal  and  was  scanning  the 
contents.  Instantly  his  face  grew  grave. 

"No — it's  not  from  Aunt  Felicia,"  he  said  in  a 
thoughtful  tone,  his  eyes  studying  the  despatch.  "I 
don't  know  whom  it's  from;  it  is  signed  T.  Ballantree; 
I  never  heard  of  him  before.  He  wants  me  to  meet 
him  at  the  Astor  House  to-day  at  eleven  o'clock. 
Some  business  of  your  father's,  I  expect — see,  it's  dated 
Morfordsburg.  Too  bad,  isn't  it,  blessed — but  I  must 
go.  Here,  boy" — this  to  the  messenger,  who  was 
moving  out  of  the  door — "stop  at  the  livery  stable  as 
you  go  by  and  tell  them  I  won't  want  the  horse  and 
wagon,  that  I'm  going  to  New  York.  All  in  a  life- 
time, my  blessed — but  I'm  dreadfully  sorry." 

"And  you  must  go?  Isn't  it  mean,  Jack — and  it's 
such  a  lovely  day." 

"Yes — but  it  can't  be  helped.  What  are  you  going 
to  do  with  the  sandwiches  and  chicken  and  things? 
And  you  had  so  much  trouble  making  them.  And  you 
will  be  lonely,  too." 

"Why,  I  shall  keep  them  till  you  come  back,  and 
we'll  have  a  lovely  feast  at  home,"  she  said  with  a 

449 


PETER 

light  laugh  in  her  effort  to  hide  her  feelings.  "Oh, 
no,  I  shan't  be  lonely.  You  won't  be  gone  long,  Jack, 
will  you,  dear?" 

"I  hope  not."  His  mind  must  no  longer  rest  on  the 
outing.  There  was  work  to  do  for  Ruth  as  well  as 
himself.  His  play  time  had  come  to  a  sudden  end; 
the  bell  had  rung  and  recess  was  over.  He  looked  at 
his  watch;  there  was  just  time  to  catch  the  train. 

She  followed  him  to  the  door  and  kissed  her  hand  as 
he  swung  down  the  path  and  through  the  gate,  and 
watched  him  until  he  had  disappeared  behind  the  long 
wall  of  the  factory;  then  she  went  in,  put  away  the 
sandwiches  and  chicken,  and  the  teapot  and  the  cups 
and  saucers,  and  emptied  the  ice. 

Yes,  the  day  was  spoiled,  she  said  to  herself — part  of 
it  anyway;  but  the  night  would  come,  and  with  it  Jack 
would  burst  in  with  news  of  all  he  had  seen  and  done, 
and  they  would  each  have  an  end  of  the  table;  their 
last  dinner  in  the  old  home,  where  everything  on  which 
her  eyes  rested  revived  some  memory  of  their  happi- 
ness. But  then  there  would  be  other  outings  at  Mor- 
fordsburg,  and  so  what  mattered  one  day  when  there 
were  so  many  left  ?  And  with  this  thought  her  tears 
dried  up  and  she  began  to  sing  again  as  she  busied 
herself  about  the  house — bursting  into  a  refrain  from 
one  of  the  operas  she  loved,  or  crooning  some  of  the  old- 
time  melodies  which  her  black  mammy  had  taught  her 
wrhen  a  child. 

But  now  for  Jack  and  what  the  day  held  for  him  of 
wonders  and  surprises. 

450 


PETER 

Some  pessimistic  wiseacre  has  said  that  all  the  dire 
and  dreadful  things  in  life  drop  out  of  a  clear  sky; 
that  it  is  the  unexpected  which  is  to  be  feared,  and 
that  the  unknown  bridges  are  the  ones  in  which  dan- 
gers lurk  and  where  calamity  is  to  be  feared. 

The  optimistic  Scribe  bites  his  derisive  thumb  at 
such  ominous  prophecies.  Once  in  a  while  some  rain 
does  fall,  and  now  and  then  a  roar  of  thunder,  or  sharp 
slash  of  sleet  will  split  the  air  during  our  journey  through 
life,  but  the  blue  is  always  above,  and  the  clouds  but 
drifting  ships  that  pass  and  are  gone.  In  and  through 
them  all  the  warm,  cheery  sun  fights  on  for  joyous  light 
and  happy  endings,  and  almost  always  wins. 

This  time  the  unexpected  took  shape  in  the  person 
of  T.  Ballantree,  from  Morfordsburg — a  plain,  direct, 
straight-to-the-point  kind  of  a  man,  whom  Jack  found 
in  the  corridor  of  the  Astor  House  with  his  eyes  on 
the  clock. 

"You  are  very  prompt,  Mr.  Breen,"  he  said  in  clear- 
cut  tones,  "  so  am  I.  What  I  wanted  to  see  you  about 
is  just  this:  You  own  some  ore  property  three  miles 
east  of  the  Maryland  Mining  Company's  lay-out. 
Am  I  right  ?" 

"Yes,  you  are  right,"  answered  Jack  with  a  compre- 
hensive glance  which  began  at  the  speaker's  black  derby 
hat,  traversed  his  suit  of  store  clothes,  and  ended  in  a  pair 
of  boots  which  still  showed  some  traces  of  yellow  clay, 
as  if  their  wearer  had  been  prospecting  the  day  before. 

"Are  there  any  encumbrances  on  the  property — any 
mortgages  or  liens  not  yet  recorded?  I  don't  mean 

451 


PETER 

taxes;   I  find  they  have  been  paid,"  continued  Ballan- 
tree. 

Jack  shifted  his  seat  so  he  could  get  a  better  view  of 
the  speaker's  face,  and  said  in  answer: 

"Why  do  you  ask?" 

"Because,"  said  the  man  with  entire  frankness,  "we 
understand  that  the  Maryland  Mining  Company  have 
an  option  on  it.  If  that  is  so,  I'll  stop  where  I  am.  We 
don't  care  to  buck  up  against  Breen  &  Co." 

"No,"  answered  Jack,  now  convinced  of  the  man's 
sincerity;  "no — it's  free  and  clear  except  for  a  loan  of 
ten  thousand  dollars  held  by  a  friend,  which  can  be 
paid  off  at  any  time." 

Ballantree  ducked  his  head  in  token  of  his  satis- 
faction over  the  statement  and  asked  another  question 
— this  time  with  his  eyes  straight  on  Jack. 

"Is  it  for  sale — now — for  money?" 

It  was  Jack's  turn  to  focus  his  gaze.  This  was  the 
first  time  any  one  had  asked  that  question  in  the  mem- 
ory of  the  oldest  inhabitant. 

"Well,  that  depends  on  what  it  is  wanted  for,  Mr. 
Ballantree,"  laughed  Jack.  He  had  already  begun  to 
like  the  man.  "And  perhaps,  too,  on  who  wants  it. 
Is  it  for  speculation?" 

Ballantree  laughed  in  return.  "No — not  a  square 
foot  of  it.  I  am  the  general  manager  of  the  Guthrie 
Steel  Company  with  head-quarters  here  in  New  York. 
We  have  been  looking  for  mineral  up  in  that  section 
of  the  State,  and  struck  yours.  I  might  as  well  tell  you 
that  I  made  the  borings  myself." 

452 


PETER 

"Are  you  an  expert?"  asked  Jack.  The  way  people 
searched  his  title,  examined  his  tax  receipts  and  rammed 
hypodermics  into  his  property  without  permission  was, 
to  say  the  least,  amusing. 

"Been  at  it  thirty  years,"  replied  Ballantree  in  a 
tone  that  settled  all  doubt  on  the  subject. 

"It  is  a  low-grade  ore,  you  know,"  explained  Jack, 
feeling  bound  to  express  his  own  doubts  of  its  value. 

"  No,  it's  a  high-grade  ore,"  returned  Ballantree  with 
some  positiveness;  "that  is,  it  was  when  we  got  down 
into  it.  But  I'm  not  here  to  talk  about  percentage — 
that  may  come  in  later.  I  came  to  save  Mr.  Guthrie's 
time.  I  was  to  bring  you  down  to  see  him  if  you  were 
the  man  and  everything  was  clean,  and  if  you'll  go — 
and  I  wouldn't  advise  you  to  stay  away — I'll  meet  you 
at  his  office  at  twelve  o'clock  sharp;  there's  his  card. 
It  isn't  more  than  four  blocks  from  here." 

Jack  took  the  card,  looked  on  both  sides  of  it,  tucked 
it  in  his  inside  pocket,  and  said  he  would  come,  with 
pleasure.  Ballantree  nodded  contentedly,  pulled  a 
cigar  from  his  upper  breast  pocket,  bit  off  one  end,  slid 
a  match  along  his  trousers  until  it  burst  into  flame, 
held  it  to  the  unbitten  end  until  it  was  a-light,  blew 
out  the  blaze,  adjusted  his  derby  and  with  another  nod 
to  Jack — and  the  magic  words — "Twelve  sharp" — 
passed  out  into  Broadway. 

Ten  minutes  later — perhaps  five,  for  Jack  arrived  on 
the  run — Jack  bounded  into  Peter's  bank,  and  slipping 
ahead  of  the  line  of  depositors,  thrust  his  overheated 
face  into  the  opening.  There  he  gasped  out  a  bit  of 

453 


PETER 

information  that  came  near  cracking  the  ostrich  egg  in 
two,  so  wide  was  the  smile  that  overspread  Peter's  face. 

"What — really!  You  don't  say  so!  Telegraphed 
you?  Who?" 

"A  Mr.  Ballantree,"  panted  Jack.  "I  have  just 
left  him  at  the  Astor  House." 

"I  never  heard  of  him.  Look  out,  my  boy — don't 
sign  anything  until  you — 

"Oh,  he  is  only  the  general  manager.  It's  a  Mr. 
Guthrie — Robert  A.  Guthrie — who  wants  it.  He  sent 
Mr.  Ballantree." 

"Robert  Guthrie!  The  banker!  That's  our  di- 
rector; that's  the  man  I  told  you  of.  I  gave  him  your 
address.  Go  and  see  him  by  all  means  and  tell  him 
everything.  Talk  just  as  you  would  to  me.  One  of 
the  best  men  in  the  Street.  Not  a  crooked  hair  on  his 
head,  Jack.  Well — well — this  does  look  like  business." 

"Pardon  me,  sir,  one  minute,  if  you  please — "  in- 
terpolated Peter  to  an  insistent  depositor  whom  Jack 
in  his  impatience  had  crowded  out.  "Now  your  book 
— thank  you —  And  Jack " —  this  over  the  hat  of  the 
depositor,  his  face  a  marvel  of  delight — "come  to 
my  rooms  at  four — wait  for  me — I'll  be  there." 

Out  again  and  around  the  block;  anything  to  kill 
time  until  the  precious  hour  should  arrive.  Lord! — 
how  the  minutes  dragged.  The  hands  of  the  old  clock 
of  Trinity  spire  must  be  stuck  together.  Any  other 
day  it  would  take  him  at  least  half  an  hour  to  walk  up 
Wall  Street,  down  Broadway  to  the  Battery  and  back 
again — now  ten  minutes  was  enough.  Would  the 

454 


PETER 

minute  hand  never  climb  up  the  face  to  the  hour  hand 
and  the  two  get  together  at  twelve,  and  so  end  his 
impatience.  He  wished  now  he  had  telegraphed  to 
Ruth  not  to  expect  him  until  the  late  afternoon  train. 
He  thought  he  would  do  it  now.  Then  he  changed  his 
mind.  No;  it  would  be  better  to  await  the  result  of  his 
interview.  Yet  still  the  clock  dragged  on,  and  still  he 
waited  for  the  magic  hour.  Ten  minutes  to  twelve — 
five — then  twelve  precisely — but  by  this  time  he  was 
closeted  inside  Mr.  Guthrie's  private  office. 

Peter  also  found  the  hours  dragging.  What  could  it 
all  mean  ?  he  kept  asking  himself  as  he  handed  back 
the  books  through  his  window,  his  eyes  wandering  up 
to  the  old-fashioned  clock.  Robert  Guthrie  the  banker 
— a  real  banker — had  sent  for  the  boy — Guthrie,  who 
never  made  a  too  hurried  move.  Could  it  be  possible 
that  good  fortune  was  coming  to  Jack? — that  he  and 
Ruth — that —  Ah!  old  fellow,  you  nearly  made  a  mis- 
take with  the  amount  of  that  check!  No — there  was 
no  use  in  supposing.  He  would  just  wait  for  Jack's 
story. 

When  he  reached  home  he  was  still  in  the  same 
overwrought,  anxious  state — hoping  against  hope. 
When  would  the  boy  come  ?  he  asked  himself  a  hundred 
times  as  he  fussed  about  his  room,  nipping  off  the  dead 
leaves  from  his  geraniums,  drawing  the  red  curtains 
back;  opening  and  shutting  the  books,  only  to  throw 
himself  into  his  chair  at  last.  Should  he  smoke  until 
four  ? — should  he  read  ?  What  a  fool  he  was  making  of 
himself!  It  was  astonishing  that  one  of  his  age  should  be 

455 


PETER 

so  excited  over  a  mere  business  proposition — really  not 
a  proposition  at  all,  when  he  came  to  think  of  it — just 
an  ordinary  question  asked.  He  must  compose  him- 
self. It  was  quite  absurd  for  him  to  go  on  this  way. 
But  would  the  boy  never  come?  It  was  four  o'clock 
now — or  would  be  in  ten  minutes,  and — and 

Yes! 

He  sprang  toward  the  door  and  caught  the  young 
fellow  in  his  arms. 

"Oh!  such  good  news!  Mr.  Guthrie's  bought  the 
property!"  roared  Jack. 

He  had  made  one  long  spring  from  the  sidewalk  up 
three  flights  of  steps  to  the  old-fashioned  door,  but 
he  still  had  breath  to  gasp  the  glad  tidings. 

"Bought!— Who?— Not  Guthrie!" 

"Yes — I  am  to  sign  the  papers  to-morrow.  Oh! — 
Uncle  Peter,  I  am  half  crazy  with  delight!" 

"Hurrah,"  shouted  Peter.  "Hurrah,  I  say!  This 
is  good  news!  Well! — Well!"  He  was  still  bending 
over  him,  his  eyes  blinking  in  his  joy,  scurries  of 
irradiating  smiles  chasing  each  other  over  his  face. 
Never  had  the  old  gentleman  been  in  such  a  state. 

"And  how  much,  Jack?" 

"Guess." 

"Will  there  be  enough  to  pay  Isaac's  ten  thousand  ?" 

"More!"  Jack  was  nearly  bursting,  but  he  still 
held  in. 

"Twenty  thousand?"  This  came  timidly,  fearing 
that  it  was  too  much,  and  yet  hoping  that  it  might  be 
true. 

456 


PETER 

"  More ! "    The  strain  on  Jack  was  getting  dangerous. 

"  Twenty-five  thousand  ?  "  Peter's  voice  now  showed 
that  he  was  convinced  that  this  sum  was  too  small. 

"More!     Go  on,  Uncle  Peter!     Goon!" 

"Thirty-five  thousand,  Jack?"  It  was  getting  hot; 
certainly  this  was  the  limit.  Was  there  ever  such  luck  ? 

"Yes! — and  five  thousand  more!  Forty  thousand 
dollars  and  one-fifth  interest  in  the  output!  Just  think 
what  Ruth  will  say.  I've  just  sent  her  a  telegram. 
Oh! — what  a  home-coming!" 

And  then,  with  Peter  drawn  up  beside  him,  his  face 
radiant  and  his  eyes  sparkling  with  joy,  he  poured  out 
the  story  of  the  morning.  How  he  had  begun  by 
telling  Mr.  Guthrie  of  his  own  and  Mr.  MacFarlane's 
opinion  of  the  property,  as  he  did  not  want  to  sell  any- 
thing he  himself  considered  worthless.  How  he  had 
told  him  frankly  what  Peter  had  said  of  his — Mr. 
Guthrie's — fairness  and  honesty;  how  he  was  at  work 
for  his  prospective  father-in-law,  the  distinguished 
engineer  of  whom  Mr.  Guthrie  had  no  doubt  heard — 
at  which  the  gentleman  nodded.  How  this  property  had 
been  given  him  by  his  father,  and  was  all  he  had  in  the 
world  except  what  he  could  earn;  how  he  already  owed 
ten  thousand  dollars  and  had  pledged  the  property  as 
part  payment,  and  how,  in  view  of  these  facts,  he  would 
take  any  sum  over  ten  thousand  dollars  that  Mr. 
Guthrie  would  give  him,  provided  Mr.  Guthrie  thought 
it  was  worth  that  much. 

"But  I  am  buying,  not  selling,  your  land,  young 
man,"  the  banker  had  said.  "I  know  it,  sir,  and  I  am 

457 


PETER 

willing  to  take  your  own  figures,"  Jack  replied — at 
which  Mr.  Guthrie  had  laughed  in  a  kindly  way,  and 
had  then  called  in  Mr.  Ballantree  and  another  man; 
how  the  three  had  then  talked  in  a  corner,  and  how 
he  had  heard  Mr.  Guthrie  say,  "No,  that  is  not  fair 
— add  another  five  thousand  and  increase  the  interest 
to  one-fifth";  whereupon  the  two  men  went  out  and 
came  back  later  with  a  letter  in  duplicate,  one  of  which 
Mr.  Guthrie  had  signed,  and  the  other  which  he, 
Jack,  signed — and  here  was  Mr.  Guthrie's  letter  to 
prove  it.  With  this  Jack  took  out  the  document 
and  laid  it  before  Peter's  delighted  eyes;  adding  that 
the  deeds  and  Isaac's  release  were  to  be  signed  in  the 
morning,  and  that  Mr.  Guthrie  had  sent  a  special  mes- 
sage by  him  to  the  effect  that  he  very  much  wished  Mr. 
Grayson  would  also  be  present  when  the  final  transfers 
would  be  signed  and  the  money  paid. 

Whereupon  the  Scribe  again  maintains — and  he  is 
rubbing  his  hands  with  the  joy  of  it  all  as  he  does  it — 
that  there  was  more  sunshine  than  clouds  in  this  par- 
ticular Unexpected,  and  that  if  all  the  boys  in  the  world 
were  as  frank  and  sincere  as  young  Jack  Breen,  and 
all  the  grown-ups  as  honest  as  old  Robert  Guthrie,  the 
real  banker,  the  jails  would  be  empty  and  the  millen- 
nium knocking  at  our  doors. 

Peter  had  drunk  in  every  word  of  the  story,  bowing 
his  head,  fanning  out  his  fingers,  or  interrupting  with 
his  customary  "Well,  well!"  whenever  some  particular 
detail  seemed  to  tend  toward  the  final  success. 

And  then,  the  story  over,  there  came  the  part  that 
458 


PETER 

Peter  never  forgot;  that  he  has  told  me  a  dozen  times, 
and  always  with  the  same  trembling  tear  under  the 
eyelids,  and  the  same  quivering  of  his  lower  lip. 

Jack  had  drawn  his  chair  nearer  the  old  gentleman, 
and  had  thrown  one  arm  over  the  shoulder  of  his  dear- 
est friend  in  the  world.  There  was  a  moment's  silence 
as  they  sat  there,  and  then  Jack  began.  "There  is 
something  I  want  you  to  do  for  me,  Uncle  Peter,"  he 
said,  drawing  his  arm  closer  till  his  own  fresh  cheek 
almost  touched  the  head  of  the  older  man.  "Please, 
don't  refuse." 

"Refuse,  my  dear  boy!  I  am  too  happy  to-day  to 
refuse  anything.  Come,  out  with  it." 

"I  am  going  to  give  you  half  of  this  money.  I  love 
you  better  than  any  one  in  this  world  except  Ruth,  and 
I  want  you  to  have  it." 

Peter  threw  up  his  hands  and  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"What! — You  want  to —  Why,  Jack!  Are  you 
crazy!  Me!  My  dear  boy,  it's  very  lovely  of  you  to 
wish  to  do  it,  but  just  think.  Oh,  you  dear  Jack!  No! 
— no,  no ! "  He  was  beating  the  air  now  deprecatingly 
with  his  outspread  fingers  as  he  strode  around  the 
room,  laughing  short  laughs  in  his  effort  to  keep  back 
the  tears. 

Jack  followed  him  in  his  circuit,  talking  all  the  while, 
until  he  had  penned  the  old  gentleman  in  a  corner  be- 
tween the  open  desk  and  the  window. 

"But,  Uncle  Peter — think  what  you  have  done  for 
me!  Do  you  suppose  for  one  moment  that  I  don't 
know  that  it  was  you  and  not  I  who  sold  the  property  ? 

459 


PETER 

Do  you  think  Mr.  Guthrie  would  have  added  that  five 
thousand  dollars  to  the  price  if  he  hadn't  wanted  to  help 
you  as  well  as  me?" 

"Five  thousand  dollars,  my  dear  Jack,  is  no  more 
to  Robert  Guthrie  than  a  ferry  ticket  is  to  you  or  me. 
He  gave  you  the  full  price  because  you  trusted  to  his 
honesty  and  told  him  the  truth,  and  he  saw  your  inex- 
perience." 

"No — it  was  you  he  was  thinking  of,  I  tell  you," 
protested  Jack,  with  eager  emphasis.  "He  would 
never  have  sent  Ballantree  for  me  had  you  not  talked 
to  him — and  it  has  been  so  with  everything  since  I 
knew  you.  You  have  been  father,  friend,  everybody 
to  me.  You  gave  me  Ruth  and  my  work.  Every- 
thing I  am  I  owe  to  you.  You  must — you  shall  have 
half  of  this  money!  Ruth  and  I  can  be  married,  and 
that  is  all  we  want,  and  what  is  left  I  can  put  into  our 
new  work  to  help  Mr.  MacFarlane.  Please,  Uncle 
Peter! — we  will  both  be  so  much  happier  if  we  know 
you  share  it  with  us."  Here  his  voice  rose  and  a  strain 
of  determination  rang  through  it.  "And,  by  George! 
— Uncle  Peter,  the  more  I  think  of  it,  the  more  I  am 
convinced  that  it  is  fair.  It's  yours — not  mine.  I  will 
have  it  that  way — you  are  getting  old,  and  you  need  it." 

Peter  broke  into  a  laugh.  It  was  the  only  way  he 
could  keep  down  the  tears. 

"What  a  dear  boy  you  are,  Jack,"  he  said,  backing 
toward  the  sofa  and  regaining  his  seat.  "You've  got 
a  heart  as  big  as  a  house,  and  I'm  proud  of  you,  but 
no — not  a  penny  of  your  money.  Think  a  moment! 

460 


PETER 

Your  father  didn't  leave  the  property  to  me — not  any 
part  of  it — he  left  it  to  you,  you  spendthrift!  When  I 
get  too  old  to  work  I  am  going  up  to  Felicia's  and  pick 
out  an  easy-chair  and  sit  in  a  corner  and  dry  up  grad- 
ually and  be  laid  away  in  lavender.  No,  my  lad,  not 
a  penny!  Gift  money  should  go  to  cripples  and 
hypochondriacs,  not  to  spry  old  gentlemen.  I  would 
not  take  it  from  my  own  father's  estate  when  I  was 
your  age,  and  I  certainly  won't  take  it  now  from  you. 
I  made  Felicia  take  it  all. "  Jack  opened  his  eyes.  He 
had  often  wondered  why  Peter  had  so  little  and  she  so 
much.  "Oh,  yes,  nearly  forty  years  ago!  But  I  have 
never  regretted  it  since!  And  you  must  see  how  just 
it  was,  for  there  wasn't  enough  for  two,  and  Felicia  was 
a  woman.  No — be  very  careful  of  gift  money,  my  boy, 
and  be  very  careful,  also,  of  too  much  of  anybody's 
money — even  your  own.  What  makes  me  most  glad 
in  this  whole  affair  is  that  Guthrie  didn't  give  you  a 
million — that  might  have  spoilt  you.  This  is  just 
enough.  You  and  Ruth  can  start  square.  You  can 
help  Henry — and  you  ought  to,  he  has  been  mighty 
good  to  you.  And,  best  of  all,  you  can  keep  at  work. 
Yes — that's  the  best  part  of  it — that  you  can  keep  at 
work.  Go  right  on  as  you  are;  work  every  single  day 
of  your  life,  and  earn  your  bread  as  you  have  done 
ever  since  you  left  New  York,  and,  one  thing  more, 
and  don't  you  ever  forget  it:  Be  sure  you  take  your 
proper  share  of  fun  and  rest  as  you  go.  Eight  hours' 
work,  eight  hours'  play,  eight  hours'  sleep — that's  the 
golden  rule  and  the  only  one  to  live  by.  Money  will 

461 


PETER 

never  get  its  grip  on  you  if  you  keep  this  up.  This 
fortune  hasn't  yet  tightened  its  fingers  around  your 
throat,  or  you  would  never  have  come  up  here  to 
give  me  half  of  it — and  never  let  it!  Money  is  your 
servant,  my  boy,  not  your  master.  And  now  go  home 
and  kiss  Ruth  for  me,  and  tell  her  that  I  love  her 
dearly.  Wait  a  moment.  I  will  go  with  you  as  far  as 
Isaac's.  I  am  going  to  tell  him  the  good  news.  Then 
I'll  have  him  measure  me  for  a  coat  to  dance  at  your 
wedding." 

And  the  Unexpecteds  are  not  yet  over.  There  was 
still  another,  of  quite  a  different  character,  about  to  fall 
— and  out  of  another  clear  sky,  too — a  sort  of  April- 
shower  sky,  where  you  get  wet  on  one  side  of  the  street 
and  keep  dry  on  the  other.  Jack  had  the  dry  side  this 
time,  and  went  on  his  way  rejoicing,  but  the  head  of 
the  house  of  Breen  caught  the  downpour,  and  a  very 
wet  downpour  it  was. 

It  all  occurred  when  Jack  was  hurrying  to  the  ferry 
and  when  he  ran  into  the  senior  member  of  the  firm, 
who  was  hurrying  in  the  opposite  direction. 

"Ah,  Jack! — the  very  man  I  wanted  to  see,"  cried 
Breen.  "I  was  going  to  write  you.  There's  some- 
thing doing  up  in  that  ore  country.  Better  drop  in  to- 
morrow, I  may  be  able  to  handle  it  for  you,  after  all." 

"I  am  sorry,  sir,  but  it's  not  for  sale,"  said  Jack, 
trying  to  smother  his  glee. 

"Why?"  demanded  Breen  bluntly. 

"I  have  sold  it  to  Mr.  Robert  Guthrie." 

" Guthrie!    The  devil  you  say !— When  ?" 
462 


PETER 

"To-day.  The  final  papers  are  signed  to-morrow. 
Excuse  me,  I  must  catch  my  boat — "  and  away  he 
went,  his  cup  now  brimming  over,  leaving  Breen  biting 
his  lips  and  muttering  to  himself  as  he  gazed  after  him. 

"  Guthrie ! — My  customer !  Damn  that  boy — I  might 
have  known  he  would  land  on  his  feet." 

But  Jack  kept  on  home  to  his  sweetheart,  most  of 
the  way  in  the  air. 

Down  in  the  little  room  all  this  time  in  the  rear  of  the 
tailor's  shop  the  two  old  men  sat  talking.  Peter  kept 
nothing  back;  his  lips  quivering  again  and  another  un- 
bidden tear  peeping  over  the  edge  of  his  eyelid  when  he 
told  of  Jack's  offer. 

"A  dear  boy,  Isaac — yes,  a  dear  boy.  He  never 
thinks  with  his  head — only  with  his  heart.  Never  has 
since  I  knew  him.  Impulsive,  emotional,  unpractical, 
no  doubt — and  yet  somehow  he  always  wins.  Queer — 
very  queer!  He  comes  upstairs  to  me  and  I  start  out 
on  a  fool's  errand.  He  goes  down  to  you,  and  you 
hand  him  out  your  money.  He  gives  it  all  away  the 
next  day,  and  then  we  have  Guthrie  doubling  the  price. 
Queer,  I  tell  you,  Isaac — extraordinary,  that's  what  it 
is — almost  uncanny." 

The  Jew  threw  away  his  cigar,  rested  his  short 
elbows  on  the  arms  of  his  chair,  and  made  a  basket  of 
his  hands,  the  tips  of  all  his  fingers  touching. 

"No,  you  are  wrong,  my  good  friend.  It  is  not  ex- 
traordinary and  it  is  not  uncanny.  It  is  very  simple — 
exceedingly  simple.  Nobody  runs  over  a  child  if  he 

463 


PETER 

can  help  it.  Even  a  thief  will  bring  you  back  your 
pocket-book  if  you  trust  him  to  take  care  of  it.  It  is 
the  trusting  that  does  it.  Few  men,  no  matter  how 
crooked,  can  resist  the  temptation  of  reaching,  if  only 
for  a  moment,  an  honest  man's  level." 


464 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

Peter's  coat  was  finished  in  time  for  the  wedding — 
trust  Isaac  for  that — and  so  was  his  double-breasted 
white  waistcoat — he  had  not  changed  the  cut  in  twenty 
years;  and  so  were  his  pepper-and-salt  trousers  and  all 
his  several  appointments,  little  and  big,  even  to  his 
polka-dot  scarf  of  blue  silk,  patent-leather  shoes  and 
white  gaiters.  Quite  the  best-dressed  man  in  the 
room,  everybody  said,  and  they  of  all  the  people  in 
the  world  should  have  known. 

And  the  wedding! 

And  all  that  went  before  it,  and  all  that  took  place 
on  that  joyous  day;  and  all  that  came  after  that  happiest 
of  events! 

Ruth  and  Jack,  with  Peter's  covert  endorsement,  had 
wanted  to  slip  into  the  village  church  some  afternoon 
at  dusk,  with  daddy  and  Peter  and  Miss  Felicia,  and 
one  or  two  more,  and  then  to  slip  out  again  and  dis- 
appear. MacFarlane  had  been  in  favor  of  the  old 
Maryland  home,  with  Ruth's  grandmother  in  charge, 
and  the  neighbors  driving  up  in  mud-encrusted  buggies 
and  lumbering  coaches,  their  inmates  warmed  by 
roaring  fires  and  roaring  welcomes — fat  turkeys,  hot 

465 


PETER 

waffles,  egg-nogg,  apple-toddy,  and  the  rest  of  it.  The 
head  of  the  house  of  Breen  expressed  the  opinion  (this 
on  the  day  Jack  gave  his  check  for  the  bonds  prior  to 
returning  them  to  Isaac,  who  wouldn't  take  a  cent 
of  interest)  that  the  ceremony  should  by  all  means 
take  place  in  Grace  Church,  after  which  everybody 
would  adjourn  to  his  house  on  the  Avenue,  where  the 
wedding-breakfast  would  be  served,  he  being  nearest  of 
kin  to  the  groom,  and  the  bride  being  temporarily 
without  a  home  of  her  own — a  proposition  which,  it  is 
needless  to  say,  Jack  declined  on  the  spot,  but  in 
terms  so  courteous  and  with  so  grand  and  distinguished 
an  air  that  the  head  of  the  house  of  Breen  found  his 
wonder  increasing  at  the  change  that  had  come  over  the 
boy  since  he  shook  the  dust  of  the  Breen  home  and 
office  from  his  feet. 

The  Grande  Dame  of  Geneseo  did  not  agree  with  any 
of  these  makeshifts.  There  would  be  no  Corklesville 
wedding  if  she  could  help  it,  with  gaping  loungers  at 
the  church  door;  nor  would  there  be  any  Maryland 
wedding  with  a  ten-mile  ride  over  rough  roads  to  a 
draughty  country-house,  where  your  back  would  freeze 
while  your  cheeks  burned  up;  nor  yet  again  any  city 
wedding,  with  an  awning  over  the  sidewalk,  a  red  carpet 
and  squad  of  police,  with  Tom,  Dick,  and  Harry  inside 
the  church,  and  Harry,  Dick  and  Tom  squeezed  into 
an  oak-panelled  dining-room  at  high  noon  with  every 
gas-jet  blazing. 

And  she  did  not  waste  many  seconds  coming  to  this 
conclusion.  Off  went  a  telegram,  after  hearing  the 

466 


PETER 

various  propositions,  followed  by  a  letter,  that  might 
have  melted  the  wires  and  set  fire  to  the  mail-sack,  so 
fervid  were  the  contents. 

" Nonsense!  My  dear  Ruth,  you  will  be  married  in 
my  house  and  the  breakfast  will  be  in  the  garden.  If 
Peter  and  your  father  haven't  got  any  common  sense, 
that's  no  reason  why  you  and  Jack  should  lose  your 
wits." 

This,  of  course,  ended  the  matter.  No  one  living  or 
dead  had  ever  been  found  with  nerve  enough  to  with- 
stand Felicia  Grayson  when  she  had  once  made  up  her 
mind. 

And  then,  again,  there  was  no  time  to  lose  in  un- 
necessary discussions.  Were  not  Ruth  and  her  father 
picnicking  in  a  hired  villa,  with  half  their  household 
goods  in  a  box-car  at  Morfordsburg  ? — and  was  not 
Jack  still  living  in  his  two  rooms  at  Mrs.  Hicks's  ?  The 
only  change  suggested  by  the  lovers  was  in  the  date  of 
the  wedding,  Miss  Felicia  having  insisted  that  it  should 
not  take  place  until  November,"  four  whole  weeks  away." 
But  the  old  lady  would  not  budge.  Four  weeks  at 
least,  she  insisted,  would  be  required  for  the  purchase 
and  making  of  the  wedding  clothes,  which,  with  four 
more  for  the  honeymoon  (at  this  both  Jack  and  Ruth 
shouted  with  laughter,  they  having  determined  on  a 
honeymoon  the  like  of  which  had  never  been  seen  since 
Adam  and  Eve  went  to  housekeeping  in  the  Garden). 
These  eight  weeks,  continued  the  practical  old  lady, 
would  be  required  to  provide  a  suitable  home  for  them 
both;  now  an  absolute  necessity,  seeing  that  Mr. 

467 


PETER 

Guthrie  had  made  extensive  contracts  with  MacFar- 
lane,  which,  with  Jack's  one-fifth  interest  in  the  ore 
banks  was  sure  to  keep  Jack  and  MacFarlane  at  Mor- 
fordsburg  for  some  years  to  come. 

So  whizz  went  another  telegram — this  time  from 
Jack — there  was  no  time  for  letters  these  days — 
stopping  all  work  on  the  nearly  completed  log  cabin 
which  the  poor  young  superintendent  had  ordered,  and 
which  was  all  he  could  afford,  before  the  sale  of  the 
ore  lands.  But  then  that  seemed  ages  and  ages  ago. 

"Don't  tell  me  what  I  want,  sir,"  roared  Mr.  Go- 
lightly  at  the  waiter,  in  "Lend  Me  Five  Shillings," 
when  he  brought  a  crust  of  bread  and  cheese  and  a 
pickle  with  which  to  entertain  Mrs.  Phobbs;  Go- 
lightly  in  the  meantime  having  discovered  a  purse  full 
of  sovereigns  in  the  coat  the  waiter  had  handed  him  by 
mistake.  "Don't  tell  me  what  I  said,  sir.  I  know 
what  I  said,  sir!  I  said  champagne,  sir,  and  plenty 
of  it,  sir! — turkeys,  and  plenty  of  them!  Burgundy- 
partridges — lobsters — pineapple  punch — pickled  salmon 
— everything!  Look  sharp!  Be  off!"  (Can't  you  hear 
dear  Joe  Jefferson's  voice,  gentle  reader,  through  it  all  ?) 

And  now  listen  to  our  proud  Jack,  with  the  clink  of 
his  own  gold  in  his  own  pocket. 

"What  did  you  say?  A  six  by  nine  log  hut,  with  a 
sheet-iron  stove  in  one  corner  and  a  cast-iron  bedstead 
in  another,  and  a  board  closet,  and  a  table  and  two 
chairs — and  this,  too,  for  a  princess  of  quality  and 
station?  Zounds,  sirrah! — (Holker  Morris  was  the 
"Sirrah")— "I  didn't  order  anything  of  the  kind.  I 

468 


PETER 

ordered  a  bungalow  all  on  one  floor — that's  what  I 
ordered — with  a  boudoir  and  two  bedrooms,  and  an 
extra  one  for  my  honored  father-in-law,  and  still  an- 
other for  my  thrice-honored  uncle,  Mr.  Peter  Grayson, 
when  he  shall  come  to  stay  o'  nights;  and  porches 
front  and  back  where  my  lady's  hammock  may  be 
slung;  and  a  fireplace  big  enough  to  roll  logs  into  as 
thick  around  as  your  body  and  wide  enough  to  warm 
every  one  all  over;  and  a  stable  for  my  lady's  mare, 
with  a  stall  for  my  saddle-horse.  Out  upon  you,  you 
Dago!" 

Presto,  what  a  change!  Away  went  the  completed 
roof  of  the  modest  cabin  and  down  tumbled  the  sides. 
More  post-holes  were  dug;  more  trenches  excavated; 
more  great  oaks  toppled  over  to  be  sliced  into 
rafters,  joists  and  uprights;  more  shingles — two  car- 
loads; more  brick;  more  plaster;  more  everything,  in- 
cluding nails,  locks,  hinges,  sash;  bath-tubs — two;  lead 
pipe,  basins,  kitchen  range — and  so  the  new  bungalow 
was  begun. 

Neither  was  there  any  time  ta  be  lost  over  the  in- 
vitations. Miss  Felicia,  we  may  be  sure,  prepared  the 
list.  It  never  bothered  her  head  whether  the  trip  to 
Geneseo — and  that,  too,  in  the  fall  of  the  year,  when 
early  snows  were  to  be  expected — might  prevent  any  of 
the  invited  guests  from  witnessing  the  glad  ceremony. 
Those  who  loved  Ruth  she  knew  would  come  even  if 
they  had  to  be  accompanied  by  St.  Bernard  dogs  with 
kegs  of  brandy  tied  to  their  necks  to  get  them  across 
the  glaciers,  including  Uncle  Peter,  of  course;  as  would 

469 


PETER 

also  Ruth's  dear  grandmother,  who  was  just  Miss  Fe- 
licia's age,  and  MacFarlane's  saintly  sister  Kate,  who 
had  never  taken  off  her  widow's  weeds  since  the  war, 
and  two  of  her  girl  friends,  with  whom  Ruth  went  to 
school,  and  who  were  to  be  her  bridesmaids. 

Then  there  were  those  who  might  or  might  not 
struggle  through  the  drifts,  if  there  happened  to  be 
any — the  head  of  the  house  of  Breen,  for  instance,  and 
Mrs.  B.,  and  lots  and  lots  of  people  of  whom  Jack  had 
never  heard,  aunts  and  uncles  and  cousins  by  the 
dozens;  and  lots  and  lots  of  people  of  whom  Ruth  had 
never  heard,  of  the  same  blood  relationship;  and  lots 
more  of  people  from  Washington  Square  and  Murray 
Hill,  who  loved  the  young  people,  and  Peter,  and  his 
outspoken  sister,  all  of  whom  must  be  invited  to  the 
ceremony;  including  the  Rector  and  his  wife  from 
Corklesville,  and — (no — that  was  all  from  Corkles- 
ville)  together  with  such  selected  inhabitants  of 
Geneseo  as  dame  Felicia  permitted  inside  of  her  doors. 
As  for  the  several  ambassadors,  generals,  judges,  dig- 
nitaries, attaches,  secretaries,  and  other  high  and 
mighty  folks  forming  the  circle  of  Miss  Felicia's  ac- 
quaintance, both  here  and  abroad,  they  were  only  to 
receive  "announcement"  cards,  just  as  a  reminder 
that  Miss  Grayson  of  Geneseo  was  still  in  and  of  the 
world. 

The  hardest  nut  of  all  to  crack  was  given  to  Jack. 
They  had  all  talked  it  over,  the  dear  girl  saying  "of 
course  he  shall  come,  Jack,  if  you  would  like  to  have 
him."  Jack  adding  that  he  should  "never  forget  his 

470 


PETER 

generosity,"  and  MacFarlane  closing  the  discussion  by 
saying : 

"Go  slow,  Jack.  I'd  say  yes  in  a  minute.  I  am 
past  all  those  foolish  prejudices,  but  it  isn't  your  house, 
remember.  Better  ask  Peter — he'll  tell  you." 

Peter  pursed  his  mouth  when  Jack  laid  the  matter 
before  him  in  Peter's  room  the  next  day,  tipped  his 
head  so  far  on  one  side  that  it  looked  as  if  it  might  roll 
off  any  minute  and  go  smash,  and  with  an  arching  of 
his  eyebrows  said: 

"Well,  but  why  not  invite  Isaac?  Has  anybody 
ever  been  as  good  to  you?" 

"Never  any  one,  Uncle  Peter — and  I  think  as  you 
do,  and  so  does  Ruth  and  Mr.  MacFarlane,  but— 
The  boy  hesitated  and  looked  away. 

"But  what?"  queried  Peter. 

"Well — there's  Aunt  Felicia.  You  know  how  par- 
ticular she  is;  and  she  doesn't  know  how  splendid  Mr. 
Cohen  has  been,  and  if  he  came  to  the  wedding  she 
might  not  like  it." 

"But  Felicia  is  not  going  to  be  married,  my  boy," 
remarked  Peter,  with  a  dry  smile  wrinkling  the  corners 
of  his  eyes. 

Jack  laughed.     "Yes — but  it's  her  house." 

"Yes — and  your  wedding.  Now  go  down  and  ask 
Mr.  Cohen  yourself.  You'll  send  him  a  card,  of 
course,  but  do  more  than  that.  Call  on  him  person- 
ally and  tell  you  want  him  to  come,  and  why — and  that 
I  want  him,  too.  That  will  please  him  still  more. 
The  poor  fellow  lives  a  great  deal  alone.  Whether  he 

471 


PETER 

will  come  or  not,  I  don't  know — but  ask  him.   You  owe 
it  to  yourself  as  much  as  you  do  to  him." 

"And  you  don't  think  Aunt  Felicia  will " 

"Hang  Felicia!  You  do  what  you  think  is  right; 
it  does  not  matter  what  Felicia  or  anybody  else 
thinks." 

Jack  wheeled  about  and  strode  downstairs  and  into 
the  back  room  where  the  little  man  sat  at  his  desk 
looking  over  some  papers.  Isaac's  hand  was  out 
and  he  was  on  his  feet  before  Jack  had  reached  his 
side. 

"Ah! — Mr.  Millionaire.  And  so  you  have  come  to 
tell  me  some  more  good  news.  Have  you  sold  another 
mine  ?  I  should  have  looked  out  to  see  whether  your 
carriage  did  not  stop  at  my  door;  and  now  sit  down 
and  tell  me  what  I  can  do  for  you.  How  well  you  look, 
and  how  happy.  Ah,  it  is  very  good  to  be  young!" 

"What  you  can  do  for  me  is  this,  Mr.  Cohen.  I 
want  you  to  come  to  our  wedding — will  you?  I  have 
come  myself  to  ask  you,"  said  Jack  in  all  sincerity. 

"  So !  And  you  have  come  yourself. ' '  He  was  greatly 
pleased;  his  face  showed  it.  "Well,  that  is  very  kind 
of  you,  but  let  me  first  congratulate  you.  Yes — Mr. 
Grayson  told  me  all  about  it,  and  how  lovely  the  young 
lady  is.  And  now  tell  me,  when  is  your  wedding?" 

"Next  month." 

"And  where  will  it  be?" 

"At  Uncle  Peter's  old  home  up  at  Geneseo." 

"Oh,  at  that  grand  lady's  place — the  magnificent 
Miss  Grayson." 

472 


PETER 

"Yes,  but  it  is  only  one  night  away.  I  will  see  that 
you  are  taken  care  of." 

The  little  man  paused  and  toyed  with  the  papers  on 
his  desk.  His  black,  diamond-pointed  eyes  sparkled 
and  an  irrepressible  smile  hung  around  his  lips. 

"Thank  you  very  much,  Mr.  Breen — and  thank  your 
young  lady  too.  You  are  very  kind  and  you  are  very 
polite.  Yes — I  mean  it — very  polite.  And  you  are  sin- 
cere in  what  you  say;  that  is  the  best  of  all.  But  I  can- 
not go.  It  is  not  the  travelling  at  night — that  is  nothing. 
You  and  your  lady  would  be  glad  to  see  me  and  that 
would  be  worth  it  all,  but  the  magnificent  Miss  Grayson, 
she  would  not  be  glad  to  see  me.  You  see,  my  dear 
young  man" — here  the  smile  got  loose  and  scampered 
up  to  his  eyelids — "I  am  a  most  unfortunate  combina- 
tion— oh,  most  unfortunate — for  the  magnificent  Miss 
Grayson.  If  I  was  only  a  tailor  I  might  be  forgiven;  if 
I  was  just  a  Jew  I  might  be  forgiven;  but  when  I  am 
both  a  tailor  and  a  Jew — "  here  the  irrepressible  went 
to  pieces  in  a  merry  laugh — "don't  you  see  how  im- 
possible it  is  ?  And  you — you,  Mr.  Breen!  She  would 
never  forgive  you.  'My  friend,  Mr.  Cohen/  you 
would  have  to  say,  and  she  could  do  nothing.  She 
must  answer  that  she  is  most  glad  to  see  me — or  she 
might  not  answer,  which  would  be  worse.  And  it  is  not 
her  fault.  You  can't  break  down  the  barriers  of  cen- 
turies in  a  day.  No — no — I  will  not  compromise  you 
in  that  way.  Let  me  come  to  see  you  some  time  when 
it  is  all  over,  when  your  good  uncle  can  come  too.  He 
will  bring  me,  perhaps.  And  now  give  my  best  respects 

473 


PETER 

to  the  lady — I  forget  her  name,  and  say  to  her  for  me, 
that  if  she  is  as  thoughtful  of  other  people  as  you  are, 
you  deserve  to  be  a  very  happy  couple." 

Jack  shook  the  little  man's  hand  and  went  his  way. 
He  was  sorry  and  he  was  glad.  He  was  also  somewhat 
ashamed  in  his  heart.  It  was  not  altogether  himself 
who  had  been  thoughtful  of  other  people.  But  for 
Peter,  perhaps,  he  might  never  have  paid  the  visit. 

As  the  blissful  day  approached  Geneseo  was  shaken 
to  its  centre,  the  vibrations  reaching  to  the  extreme 
limits  of  the  town.  Not  only  was  Hoggins  who  drove 
the  village  'bus  and  tucked  small  package?  under  the 
seat  on  the  sly,  overworked,  but  all  the  regular  and  ir- 
regular express  companies  had  to  put  on  extra  teams. 
Big  box,  little  box,  band  box,  bundle,  began  to  pour  in, 
to  say  nothing  of  precious  packages  that  nobody  but 
"Miss  Grayson"  could  sign  for.  And  then  such  a 
litter  of  cut  paper  and  such  mounds  of  pasteboard 
boxes  poked  under  Miss  Felicia's  bed,  so  she  could 
defend  them  in  the  dead  of  night,  and  with  her  life  if 
necessary,  each  one  containing  presents,  big  and  little; 
the  very  biggest  being  a  flamboyant  service  of  silver 
from  the  head  of  the  house  of  Breen  and  his  wife, 
and  the  smallest  a  velvet-bound  prayer-book  from 
Aunt  Kate  with  inter-remembrances  from  Mac- 
Farlane  (all  the  linen,  glass,  and  china);  from  Peter 
(two  old  decanters  with  silver  coasters);  from  Miss 
Felicia  (the  rest  of  her  laces,  besides  innumerable  fans 
and  some  bits  of  rare  jewelry) ;  besides  no  end  of  things 

474 


PETER 

from  the  Holker  Morrises  and  the  Fosters  and  dozens 
of  others,  who  loved  either  Ruth  or  Jack,  or  somebody 
whom  each  one  or  both  of  them  loved,  or  perhaps  their 
fathers  and  mothers  before  them.  The  Scribe  has  for- 
gotten the  list  and  the  donors,  and  really  it  is  of  no 
value,  except  as  confirmation  of  the  fact  that  they  are 
still  in  the  possession  of  the  couple,  and  that  none  of 
them  was  ever  exchanged  for  something  else  nor  will 
be  until  the  end  of  time. 

One  curious-looking  box,  however,  smelling  of 
sandalwood  and  dried  cinnamon,  and  which  arrived 
the  day  the  ceremony  took  place,  is  worthy  of  recall, 
because  of  the  universal  interest  which  it  excited.  It 
was  marked  "Fragile"  on  the  outside,  and  was  packed 
with  extraordinary  care.  Miss  Felicia  superintended 
the  unrolling  and  led  the  chorus  of  "Oh,  how  lovely!" 
herself,  when  an  Imari  jar,  with  carved  teakwood  stand, 
was  brought  to  light.  So  exquisite  was  it  in  glaze,  form, 
and  color  that  for  a  moment  no  one  thought  of  the 
donor.  Then  their  curiosity  got  the  better  of  them 
and  they  began  to  search  through  the  wrappings  for 
the  card.  It  wasn't  in  the  box;  it  wasn't  hidden  in  the 
final  bag;  it  wasn't — here  a  bright  thought  now  flashed 
through  the  dear  lady's  brain — down  went  her  shapely 
hand  into  the  depths  of  the  tall  jar,  and  up  came  an 
envelope  bearing  Ruth's  name  and  enclosing  a  card 
which  made  the  grande  dame  catch  her  breath. 

"Mr.  Isaac  Cohen!  What— the  little  tailor!"  she 
gasped  out.  "The  Jew!  Well,  upon  my  word — did 
you  ever  hear  of  such  impudence!" 

475 


PETER 

Isaac  would  have  laughed  the  harder  could  he  have 
seen  her  face. 

Jack  caught  up  the  vase  and  ran  with  it  to  Ruth,  who 
burst  out  with  another:  "Oh,  what  a  beauty!"  followed 
by  "Who  sent  it?" 

"A  gentleman  journeyman  tailor,  my  darling,"  said 
Jack,  with  a  flash  of  his  eye  at  Peter,  his  face  wreathed 
in  smiles. 

And  with  the  great  day — a  soft  November  day — 
summer  had  lingered  on  a-purpose — came  the  guests: 
the  head  of  the  house  of  Breen  and  his  wife — not  poor 
Corinne,  of  course,  who  poured  out  her  heart  in  a 
letter  instead,  which  she  entrusted  to  her  mother  to 
deliver;  and  Holker  Morris  and  Mrs.  Morris,  and  the 
Fosters  and  the  Granthams  and  Wildermings  and  their 
wives  and  daughters  and  sons,  and  one  stray  general, 
who  stopped  over  on  his  way  to  the  West,  and  who  said 
when  he  entered,  looking  so  very  grand  and  important, 
that  he  didn't  care  whether  he  had  been  invited  to  the 
ceremony  or  not,  at  which  Miss  Felicia  was  delighted, 
he  being  a  major-general  on  the  retired  list,  and  not  a 
poor  tailor  who — no,  we  won't  refer  to  that  again; 
besides  a  very,  very  select  portion  of  the  dear  lady's 
townspeople — the  house  being  small,  as  she  explained, 
and  Miss  MacFarlane's  intimates  and  acquaintances 
being  both  importunate  and  numerous. 

And  with  the  gladsome  hour  came  the  bride. 

None  of  us  will  ever  forget  her.  Not  only  was  she 
a  vision  of  rare  loveliness,  but  there  was  in  her  every 
glance  and  movement  that  stateliness  and  grace,  that 

476 


PETER 

poise  and  sureness  of  herself  that  marks  the  high-born 
woman  the  world  over  when  she  finds  herself  the 
cynosure  of  all  eyes. 

All  who  saw  her  descend  Miss  Felicia's  stairs  held 
their  breath  in  adoration:  Not  a  flight  of  steps  at  all. 
but  a  Jacob's  ladder  down  which  floated  a  company  of 
angels  in  pink  and  ivory — one  all  in  white,  her  lovely 
head  crowned  by  a  film  of  old  lace  in  which  nestled 
a  single  rose. 

On  she  came — slowly — proudly — her  slippered  feet 
touching  the  carpeted  steps  as  daintily  as  treads  a 
fawn;  her  gown  crinkling  into  folds  of  silver  about  her 
knees,  one  fair  hand  lost  in  a  mist  of  gauze,  the  other 
holding  the  blossoms  which  Jack  had  pressed  to  his 
lips — until  she  reached  her  father's  side. 

"Dear  daddy,"  I  heard  her  whisper  as  she  patted 
his  sleeve  with  her  fingers. 

Ah!  but  it  was  a  proud  day  for  MacFarlane.  I  saw 
his  bronzed  and  weather-beaten  face  flush  when  he 
caught  sight  of  her  in  all  her  gracious  beauty;  but  it 
was  when  she  reached  his  side  and  laid  her  hand  on 
his  arm,  as  he  told  me  afterward,  that  the  choke  came. 
She  was  so  like  her  mother. 

The  two  swept  past  me  into  the  old-fashioned  parlor, 
now  a  bower  of  roses,  where  Jack  and  Peter  and 
Felicia,  with  the  elect,  waited  their  coming,  and  I 
followed,  halting  at  the  doorway.  From  this  point  of 
vantage  I  peered  in  as  best  I  could  over  and  between 
the  heads  of  the  more  fortunate,  but  I  heard  all  that 
went  on;  the  precise,  sonorous  voice  of  the  bishop — 

477 


PETER   ' 

(catch  Miss  Felicia  having  anybody  but  a  bishop) ;  the 
clear  responses — especially  Jack's — as  if  he  had  been 
waiting  all  his  life  to  say  those  very  words  and  insisted 
on  being  heard;  the  soft  crush  of  satin  as  Ruth  knelt: 
the  rustle  of  her  gown  when  she  regained  her  feet;  the 
measured  words:  "Whom  God  hath  joined  together, 
let  no  man  put  asunder" — and  then  the  outbreak  of 
joyous  congratulations.  As  I  looked  in  upon  them  all 
— old  fellow  as  I  am — listening  to  their  joyous  laughter: 
noting  the  wonderful  toilettes,  the  festoons  and  masses 
of  flowers;  watching  Miss  Felicia  as  she  moved  about 
the  room  (and  never  had  I  seen  her  more  the  "Grande 
Dame"  than  she  was  that  day),  welcoming  her  guests 
with  a  graciousness  that  must  have  opened  some  of 
their  eyes — even  fat,  red-faced  Arthur  Breen,  perspiring 
in  pearl-colored  gloves  and  a  morning  frock  coat  that 
fitted  all  sides  of  him  except  the  front,  and  Mrs.  Arthur 
in  moire  antique  and  diamonds,  were  enchanted; 
noting,  too,  Peter's  perfectly  appointed  dress  and 
courtly  manners,  he  taking  the  whole  responsibility  of 
the  occasion  on  his  own  shoulders — head  of  the  house, 
really,  for  the  time;  receiving  people  at  the  door; 
bowing  them  out  again;  carrying  glasses  of  punch — 
stopping  to  hobnob  with  this  or  that  old  neighbor: 
"Ah,  my  dear  Mrs.  Townehalle,  how  young  and  well 
you  look;  and  you  tell  me  this  is  your  daughter.  I 
knew  your  mother,  my  dear,  when  she  was  your  age, 
and  she  was  the  very  prettiest  girl  in  the  county.  And 
now  let  me  present  you  to  a  most  charming  woman, 
Mrs.  Foster,  of  New  York,  who — "  etc.,  etc.  Or 

478 


PETER 

greeting  some  old  gray-head  with:  "Well,  well — of 
course  it  is — why,  Judge,  I  haven't  seen  you  since  you 
left  the  bench  which  you  graced  so  admirably,"  etc., 
etc.;  watching,  too,  Ruth  and  Jack  as  they  stood  be- 
neath a  bower  of  arching  roses — (Miss  Felicia  had  put 
it  together  with  her  own  hands) — receiving  the  con- 
gratulations and  good  wishes  of  those  they  knew  and 
those  they  did  not  know;  both  trying  to  remember  the 
names  of  strangers;  both  laughing  over  their  mistakes, 
and  both  famished  for  just  one  kiss  behind  some  door 
or  curtain  where  nobody  could  see.  As  I  looked  on,  I 
say,  noting  all  these  and  a  dozen  other  things,  it  was 
good  to  feel  that  there  was  yet  another  spot  in  this  world 
of  care  where  unbridled  happiness  held  full  sway  and 
joy  and  gladness  were  contagious. 

But  it  was  in  the  tropical  garden,  with  its  frog  pond, 
climbing  roses  in  full  bloom,  water-lilies,  honeysuckle, 
and  other  warm-weather  shrubs  and  plants  (not  a  single 
thing  was  a-bloom  outside,  even  the  chrysanthemums 
had  been  frost-bitten),  that  the  greatest  fun  took 
place.  That  was  a  sight  worth  ten  nights  on  the  train 
to  see. 

Here  the  wedding  breakfast  was  spread,  the  bride's 
table  being  placed  outside  that  same  arbor  where  Jack 
once  tried  so  hard  to  tell  Ruth  he  loved  her  (how  often 
have  they  laughed  over  it  since);  a  table  with  covers 
for  seven,  counting  the  two  bridesmaids  and  the  two 
gallants  in  puffy  steel-gray  scarfs  and  smooth  steel- 
gray  gloves.  The  other  guests — the  relations  and  inti- 
mate friends  who  had  been  invited  to  remain  after  the 

479 


PETER 

ceremony — were  to  find  seats  either  at  the  big  or  little 
tables  placed  under  the  palms  or  beneath  the  trellises  of 
jasmine,  or  upon  the  old  porch  overlooking  the  tropical 
garden. 

It  was  Jack's  voice  that  finally  caught  my  attention. 
I  could  not  see  clearly  on  account  of  the  leaves  and 
tangled  vines,  but  I  could  hear. 

"But  we  want  you,  and  you  must." 

"Oh,  please,  do,"  pleaded  Ruth;  there  was  no  mis- 
taking the  music  of  her  tones,  or  the  southern  accent 
that  softened  them. 

" But  what  nonsense — an  old  duffer  like  me!"  This 
was  Peter's  voice — no  question  about  it. 

"We  won't  any  of  us  sit  down  if  you  don't,"  Jack 
was  speaking  now. 

"And  it  will  spoil  everything,"  cried  Ruth.  "Jack 
and  I  planned  it  long  ago;  and  we  have  brought  you 
out  a  special  chair;  and  see  your  card — see  what  it 
says:  'Dear  Uncle  Peter— 

"Sit  down  with  you  young  people  at  your  wedding 
breakfast!"  cried  Peter,  "and—  He  didn't  get  any 
farther.  Ruth  had  stopped  what  was  to  follow  with  a 
kiss.  I  know,  for  I  craned  my  neck  and  caught  the 
flash  of  the  old  fellow's  bald  head  with  the  fair  girl's 
cheek  close  to  his  own. 

"Well,  then — just  as  you  want  it — but  there's  the 
Major  and  Felicia  and  your  father." 

But  they  did  not  want  any  of  these  people,  Ruth 
cried  with  a  ringing  laugh;  didn't  want  any  old 
people;  they  just  wanted  their  dear  Uncle  Peter,  and 

480 


PETER 

they  were  going  to  have  him;  a  resolution  which  was 
put  to  vote  and  carried  unanimously,  the  two  pink 
bridesmaids  and  the  two  steel-gray  gentlemen  voting 
the  loudest. 

The  merriment  ceased  when  Ruth  disappeared  and 
came  back  in  a  dark-blue  travelling  dress  and  Jack  in 
a  brown  suit.  We  were  all  in  the  doorway,  our  hands 
filled  with  rose  petals — no  worn-out  slippers  or  hail  of 
rice  for  this  bride — when  she  tried  to  slip  through  in 
a  dash  for  the  carriage,  but  the  dear  lady  caught  and 
held  -her,  clasping  the  girl  to  her  heart,  kissing  her  lips, 
her  forehead,  her  hands — she  could  be  very  tender 
when  she  loved  anybody;  and  she  loved  Ruth  as  her 
life;  Peter  and  her  father  going  ahead  to  hold  open  the 
door  where  they  had  their  kisses  and  handshakes,  their 
blessings,  and  their  last  words  all  to  themselves. 

The  honeymoon  slipped  away  as  do  all  honeymoons, 
and  one  crisp,  cool  December  day  a  lumbering  country 
stage  containing  two  passengers  struggled  up  a  steep 
hill  and  stopped  before  a  long,  rambling  building 
nearing  completion.  All  about  were  piles  of  partly 
used  lumber,  broken  bundles  of  shingles,  empty  barrels, 
and  abandoned  mortar  beds.  Straight  from  the  low 
slanting  roof  with  its  queer  gables,  rose  a  curl  of  blue 
smoke,  telling  of  comfort  and  cheer  within.  Back  of 
it  towered  huge  trees,  and  away  off  in  the  distance  swept 
a  broad  valley  hazy  in  the  morning  light. 

"Oh,  Jack — what  a  love!"  cried  one  passenger — she 
had  alighted  with  a  spring,  her  cheeks  aglow  with  the 

481 


PETER 

bracing  mountain  air,  and  was  standing  taking  it  all  in. 
"And,  oh — see  the  porch! — and  the  darling  windows 
and  the  dear  little  panes  of  glass!  And,  Jack — "  she 
had  reached  the  open  door  now,  and  was  sweeping  her 
eyes  around  the  interior — "Oh! — oh! — what  a  fireplace! 
— and  such  ducky  little  shelves — and  the  flowers,  and  the 
table  and  the  big  easy  chairs  and  rugs !  Isn't  it  lovely ! ! " 
And  then  the  two,  hand  in  hand,  stepped  inside  and 
shut  the  door. 

THE   END. 


482 


THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  SANTA  CRUZ 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  DATE  stamped  below. 


•v 


50m-l,'69(J5643s8)2373  —  3A,1 


TflRED  AT  NRLF 


PS2864.P4  1908 


3  2106  00208  0866 


